Lad, and can you rest now, <br />There beneath your hill! <br />Your hands are on your breast now, <br />But is your heart so still? <br />'Twas the right death to die, lad, <br />A gift without regret, <br />But unless truth's a lie, lad, <br />You dream of Devon yet. <br /> <br />Ay, ay, the year's awaking, <br />The fire's among the ling, <br />The beechen hedge is breaking, <br />The curlew's on the wing; <br />Primroses are out, lad, <br />On the high banks of Lee, <br />And the sun stirs the trout, lad; <br />From Brendon to the sea. <br /> <br />I know what's in your heart, lad,--- <br />The mare he used to hunt--- <br />And her blue market-cart, lad, <br />With posies tied in front--- <br />We miss them from the moor road, <br />They're getting old to roam, <br />The road they're on's a sure road <br />And nearer, lad, to home. <br /> <br />Your name, the name they cherish? <br />'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true: <br />But stone and all may perish <br />With little loss to you. <br />While fame's fame you're Devon, lad, <br />The Glory of the West; <br />Till the roll's called in heaven, lad, <br />You may well take your rest.<br /><br />Sir Henry Newbolt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/april-on-waggon-hill/