The fast-gathering drift on the hedge see descend,
And streams of faint lightning flash by.
Yes, Northumbria, thy climate is cold and severe;
There winter usurps the blithe spring;
And through the wide range of the circling year,
Chilling damps to thy bosom will cling.
Yet thy health-giving breeze, be it ever so cold,
Knits the nerves of thy children for war;
Whose proud speaking eye in the soldier behold,
And for whose dauntless heart view the tar.