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Dream of a Cornish exile.
To sit in Northwest England, Lyonesse upon my mind,
I know I must return to Kernow, the land I left behind.
For many years I cared not, wherever I might roam,
but now I come to realise it's time to journey home.
Back home to my Lafrowda, a place that welcomes me,
at the Sou'west tip of Penwith with Cape Cornwall by the sea.
To see the cliffs and watch the surf, back home in my land of birth,
that's what I need to hear and see to satisfy this need in me.
The years are more than twenty since I left that lovely land,
a place that has its legends... just we Cornish understand...
of wreckers, kings, they piskey things,
and a long-lost sunken land.
Penzance, the town where I was born, is not what pulls me back,
but a place some say is full of wind and mist...
...and miles off the beaten track.
Fog Valley is the townies' name for where I long to be,
I used to be a townie 'til the pards adopted me.
And now I feel I miss the place,
and old friends are missing me,
a recent, fleeting visit showed me where I need to be.
St Just is full of memories, that's the place I'm speaking of,
and even after all these years I still can feel the love.
I felt it on my visit, from those I knew before -
but, alas, today I read the news that some are there no more.
An old school friend who ran the pub has sadly passed away,
we're the same age and I feel the rub,
there's no time left to stray.
As soon as I can make the trip I shall cross Dunheved Bridge,
leaving England far behind I'll yell
"Oggie, Oggie" with no grudge.
For all my years in exile was a move I chose to take,
a special friend has tret me well
but this hard choice I must make,
and drive four hundred weary miles until I reach the track
that leads down to Penanwell,
through Bosorne and t'ward Cape stack.
The years, I feel, have been kind to me,
and before my race is run
I shall journey back to Kernow,
and the place I know is home,
to see the sea and smell the surf,
to stroll on hallowed Cornish turf.
There are no other words I know,
to tell how much I've missed her so.
That Cornish soil is Mother earth,
and 'tis fitting that my place of birth
should be the place for my last breath,
on home turf that I love the best.
No, I'm not ready to go, but I find
mortality is on my mind,
and when that fateful day arrives,
I hope they toss me to the wind
so I can witness from above
sights, smells and sounds I know and love.
What's that I hear,
our rugger squad are favourites for the cup?
Well, I don't know if that's true, but the thought has bucked me up.
Cut morbid talk and show support, this is no time to moan,
So I'll say "Bugger England...
this Cousin Jack is going home".
© Copyright Kenneth G Woolcock 19th July 2007
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