Over the stile and up the lane
Between the thorny brambles,
That’s the way we go again
For summer Sunday rambles.
Full well we know when we return
For Sunday tea our hearts will yearn.
Over ditch and leap the gorse,
With butterflies around us.
And past the gate where Prince the horse
Will neigh when he has found us,
And canter up with mane aloft
And let us stroke his muzzle soft.
On to the mountain and the ling,
With sky so wide and airy,
And there we hear the skylark sing,
As sweet as any fairy.
And bees are busy in the heat
Among the heather at our feet.
Over the hillside, down the vale,
On to the sea our gaze is.
Port St. Mary agleam with sail,
Meadows white with daisies.
And right below the farmstead grey
Where we enjoy our holiday.
Croft and cottage lie asleep,
Smoke from chimneys slanting;
On the turf the too-warm sheep
Are stretched and feebly panting.
And through the heat old South Barrule
Looks quite detached, remote and cool.
Over the heather, down the lane,
Between the ferns and nettles;
That’s the way we go again,
Our shoes adorned with petals.
We shout for well we know with glee
There’s jelly red and cream for tea!