THERE is no fairer land,
Nor spot on earth
Than the sunny wave-washed strand,
Place of our birth;
No vision half so dear
To us can come,
As the mem’ries clustering near
Our dear old home.

Ye blue waves of Quinte,
Now dancing and gleaming,
Your weird echoes haunt me,
When waking or dreaming;
Your murmur, at even,
An angel-voice seemeth,
Low whisp’ring of Heaven,
When soft moonlight beameth.

Ye blue waves of Quinte,
When dashing and sparkling,
Half charm, and half daunt me,
Now flashing, now darkling;
The moan of your surges,
’Neath white foam wreaths sounding
Like sad fun’ral dirges
Mid snow-flakes resounding.

Ye blue waves of Quinte,
No longer beguiling,
Ye mock me, and taunt me,
Though glinting and smiling;
Of all that I cherished,
The years have bereft me—
All! All else have perished,
Ye only are left me.
(Set to Music by Cecil J. A. Birkett).