Homesick

I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit ago it seems,
An' back among the Cotswolds I were wanderin' in me dreams.
I saw the old grey homestead, with the rickyard set around,
An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a pleasant, homelike sound.
Then on I went a-singin', through the pastures where the sheep
Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for to sleep.

An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half stifled by the grass,
Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw the corncrake pass.
For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! An' the blue forget-me-nots
Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky chimbley pots.
I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the dazzlin' sights I've seen;
I was back among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been.

Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, a stiffish climb,
Right to the bridge, where all our sheep comes up at shearin' time.
There was the wild briar roses hangin' down so pink an' sweet,
A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover at my feet
An' here me heart stopped beatin', for down by Gatcombe's Wood
My lad was workin' with his team, as only my lad could!

"COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook an' breezes seemed to say.
"'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT MARY DREW'S AWAY."

An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages has been paid,
An' they're lookin' through the papers for another kitchen maid).
Back to the old grey homestead, an' the uplands cool an' green,
To my lad among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been!

Fay Inchfawn

Fay Inchfawn was the pen name of Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, a prolific British author and poet born in 1880. She published a variety of works, including poetry, essays, and books on homemaking, and was known for her cheerful, optimistic writing style. Her works often focused on domestic life and faith, resonating particularly with female readers in the early to mid-20th century. Beyond her literary output, little is widely known about her personal life. Fay Inchfawn passed away in 1978.

Fay Inchfawn

If Only ----

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Reason

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Housewife

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

The Dear Folks in Devon

Fay Inchfawn, Simple Poetry

English

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The Midlands

Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill
Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky
Deep as the bedded violets that fill
March woods with dusky passion. As I lie
Abed between cool walls I watch the host
Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,
And drowsily the habit of these most
Beloved of English lands moves in my brain,
While silence holds dominion of the dark,
Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.

I see the valleys in their morning mist
Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light,
Happy with many a yeoman melodist:
I see the little roads of twinkling white
Busy with fieldward teams and market gear
Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell
The many-minded changes of the year,
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Fieldfares

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent,
Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent,
            Welcoom back to t' moorlands,
            Frae Norway's fells an' shorelands,
Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high:
            Oft on trees you gethers,
            Preenin' out your feathers,
An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.

Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors,
Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors;
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Here i' bed...

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Poynings.

    Do you remember that June day among
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    In God's warm pasturage, the azure sky;
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    Deep, vivid green, save where the flocks showed white;
    The wise ewes hiding from the glow of noon
    In shady spots, the short-wooled lambs at play,
    And over all the stillness of the hills,
    The sweet and solemn stillness of the hills.

    The shepherds gave us just such looks of mild
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Reflections.

Looking Over A Gate At A Pool In A Field.


What change has made the pastures sweet
And reached the daisies at my feet,
And cloud that wears a golden hem?
This lovely world, the hills, the sward -
They all look fresh, as if our Lord
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And here's the field with light aglow;
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And how its wet leaves trembling shine!
Between their trunks come through to me
The morning sparkles of the sea
Below the level browsing line

I see the pool more clear by half
Than pools where other waters laugh
Up at the breasts of coot and rail.
There, as she passed it on her way,
I saw reflected yesterday
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There, neither slowly nor in haste,
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The Fall Of The Year

The Autumn's come again,
And the clouds descend in rain,
And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;
The Summer's voice is still,
Save the clacking of the mill
And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.

There's nothing in the mead
But the river's muddy speed,
And the willow leaves all littered by its side.
Sweet voices are all still
In the vale and on the hill,
And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.

Fled is the cuckoo's note
To countries far remote,
And the nightingale is vanished from the woods;
If you search the lordship round
There is not a blossom found,
And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.

My true love's fled away
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An Interlude Of Peace - The Fairy West

I.

We wrote and sang of a bush we never
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The grass waved high on the flat and siding,
The wild flowers bloomed on the banks so fair,
And younger sons from the North came riding
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We wrote and sang, and the Lord knows best,
Oh, those dear old songs of the fairy West!

We dreamed and sang of the bustling mother;
The brick-floored kitchen we saw so clear,
The pranks and jokes of the youngest brother,
The evening songs of our sisters dear.
The old man dozed in the chimney corner,
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