Not my own waves that thunder on the shore;
Not my own wild wind sweeping o'er the seas;
Not my own music in the mighty roar
That makes its chords of all the yellowing trees;
Not my own skies that shine in gloom and gleam,
Over the turbid waters in their strife;
Not my own wide horizon's pale grey dream,
In yon faint glimpse of the fair hills of Fife.
Yet, as two meeting in a foreign land,
Hailing the subtle link of glance or tone,
Stretch eagerly to clasp a kindred hand,
That pulses with the blood that warms his own,
So, yearning always for my English North,
I linger, listening lovingly, by Forth.