I Am Of The Fields

I am of the fields where the rushes do grow
Where the river Finnow to the Blackwater flow
Of here to the north and many miles away
Though home is where you live as many do say
Though them in reality i may never more see
Those old fields do hold happy memories for me
High above the rushes in the prime of Spring
The little brown lark in the cloud world does sing
A musical speck in the calm evening sky
Though born on the ground to sing he has to fly
I only have memories left for to share
Of the fields of the badger and the shy brown hare
When the hawthorns are cloaked in their white blooms of the May
And the nesting birds sing for to greet the new day.