Frederic Weatherly

I have knelt in the mighty temples, But the dumb gods make no sign; They cannot speak to my spirit, As thy soul speaks to mine.

I stand in a land of roses, But I dream of a land of snow, Where you and I were happy, In the years of long ago.

Oh, we'm come up from Somerset, Where the cider apples grow, We'm come to see your Majesty, An' how the world do go. And when you're wanting anyone, If you'll kindly let us know,

Roses are shining in Picardy In the hush of the silver dew; Roses are flowering in Picardy But there's never a rose like you. And the roses will die with the summer time And our roads may be far apart,

And once again the scene was chang’d, New earth there seem’d to be, I saw the Holy City Beside the tideless sea; The light of God was on its streets, The gates were open wide,

Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side, The summer's gone, and all the roses falling, It's you, it's you must go, and I must bide.