There's a mist of frail blossom adrift in the trees,
The Spring song of birds sets the orchards a-thrill;
And now on our brows blows the salt Channel breeze,
The busy port hums in the lap of the hill.
So warp out your transports and bear us away
From the Yser and Somme, from the Ancre and the Aisne,
From fire-blackened deserts of shell-pitted clay,
And give us our Chilterns and Cotswolds again.
Oh, show us old England all silver and gold,
With the flame o' the gorse and the flower o' the thorn;