Born in the countries of yorkshire , like a wine poured in intimacy of a glass
A boy that stood in the depths of the Great nation far away from its capital or industrial sectors ,
With many more , whose soil holds them in a distance from chaos
A farmer in youth , on fathers mercy , where nature's eyes are on me ,
Not in the alarming clocks of days or stars of night but under the trees so tall ,
He'd call , " Gather the harvest lad before the evening fall !"
Those days now come , like faded dreams on winds that blew my youth away,

A life of toil , both hard and long , yet never I stray
The moonlit nights , a distant sound , the postal engine's voice from far ,
Letters from young , old...