  Along the road to Ronda Grow rosemary and thyme, And trails of periwinkle Among the brambles climb; But ’tis the broom the paths along That lifts the traveller’s heart to song. The broom its royal treasure Spills lavish, far and wide, No stone but has its banner Of cloth-of-gold beside, No weed but bears its nodding plume, Its careless bravery of bloom. The purple spears of lavender Smell sweet as charity, By grey-flowered rosemary; It’s worth a year of suffering To walk the Ronda road in spring. There grows a gallant army Of blossoms great and small Along the road to Ronda— The broom is lord of all. O fair and fair and wonder-fair, Spilt like the sunshine everywhere! Ronda, Spain. |
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