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APRIL ON WAGGON HILL
We miss them from the moor road,They're getting old to roam,The road they're on's a sure roadAnd nearer, lad, to home.
Your name, the name they cherish?'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:But stone and all may perishWith little loss to you.While fame's fame you're Devon, lad,The Glory of the West;Till the roll's called in heaven, lad,You may well take your rest.
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