Not for my eyes are Arcadia’s fountains
When I am tired and sore depressed.
Not for my feet are Alpine mountains
High above earth on precipice,
When I am seeking peace and solace,
When I am seeking rest.

Not for my ears are tropical thunders
Rolling the heavens from zenith to pole.
Not to my taste are natural wonders
Regal and vast in majestic splendour;
When I yearn for a touch more tender,
Tired in body and soul.

Leave me alone in old Ellan Vannin,
Leave me wander her sylvan glens.
Not for my ears the thundering cannon,
Battle and strife, ambition and power.
Here I would ripen with tree and flower,
Letting my troubles fly hence.

December, 1926