Old James

Old James often talks of his old English hill
And he fancies he hears the babble of the rill
That flows to the river that to the sea flow
By grove and by wood and many a hedgerow.

Sixty years in Australia yet his accent remain
One piece of old England that he did retain
The England he knew is a changed Land today
And his boyhood friends with the departed lay.

For one in his early eighties he looks rather well
But the years on him now are beginning to tell
He does enjoy life and death he does not fear
And he goes to the Local and he enjoys his beer.

The green shores of England he may never more see
Time it does not wait for him like it does not wait for me
Yet he does not find it hard to visualize
And in fancy he can hear the lark at sunrise

Carol above the mountain from here far away
Fond memories of home with him destined to stay
Until the grim reaper will pay him the call
The reaper who will claim the life from us all.