Before these old eyes the broken ground,
spreads endless to the sky.
Grey housing starts and channelled fields,
before my vision lie.
A rugged, hardened frozen land,
would that my eyes could see,
the lights along an English lane
that twinkle there for me.

There's rolled asphalt between the rows,
instead of winding English lanes;
scraggy pines instead of Hawthorne blooms;
spread o'er the broken plains.
there's ne'er a Lark or Nightingale
to sooth my longing heart;
I now live in this divided land,
which I can never be a part.

But this is where my bread is earned
and that's where a man must be.
To make his best upon this scene,
and keep his children free.
Yet, Oh what I would give tonight,
as I lie heavily down;
to hear the bells of Big-Ben ring out,
in my old London town.

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