A Devonshire infantryman contemplates his fate…




Do I go for the peace of a heather-strewn moorland
Or streams that rush down to the farms?
Do I die for the song of the wild and free skylark
Or pine forests of evergreen charms?
Is my Maker then calling across shimmering lakes
And not through the carnage of war?
When the bullets speak loud and beckon me on,
Will I feel the gentle rain once more?
At the edge of the Moor,
Where the soft winds sigh;
I was born and I was bred
Under English skies.


Hear "The Song of Lost Skies"