Clinton Scollard

Over me lifts the peat-reek

That parts and drifts and veers,

And the wind’s uneasy moaning

Is loud about mine ears.

The waves upon the shingle

They murmur drearily,

And the streamers of the fog-wraith

Drive in from the open sea.

The mist hangs over the passes,

The mist hangs over the moors,

And the eerie cry of the curlew

It quavers and endures.

And it all is lonely, lonely,

And there ’s sorrow on every face,

But the heart of me needs must love it,

For the land is mine own place!

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TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK PRINTED ON VAN GELDER HAND-MADE PAPER AND THE TYPE DISTRIBUTED IN THE MONTH OF MARCH MDCCCCXIV
Publisher's device

The original book printed contractions (as opposed to elisions) with a spaced apostrophe: this has been retained.

Minor typographical corrections are documented in the source code.