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There's an island in the cold Atlantic waters
Where restless
waves beat ever on the shore –
Where seagulls' crying wakes you in the
morning
Calling you to come back home once more.
The rocky crags and
hills may lack the verdure
Your conscious eyes around you ever see
–
But your heart and soul are constant in their longing
To hear once
more that restless, northern sea.
Though the Long Range Mountains and their spreading
foothills
And icy streams make Codroy's valley green,
Your dreams are of
the rugged rocks and harbours
The wild Atlantic fashioned with its
stream.
Cabot called his first sight "Bonavista" –
And Baltimore
discovered "Ferryland" –
The rugged, foggy shores of dear old Avalon
To you, is home, your home, your Newfoundland.
You stand once more atop that craggy summit
Where once
Marconi stood, when day is done –
Before you only gray Atlantic waters
–
Behind that snug, safe harbour and the sun.
The surf rolls loudly
near that hidden valley
Where bluebells nod o'er mounds that mark the
dead
Who fought and died for honour, king and country
So many years ago,
in Newfoundland. |
