I am weary of this country, with its hedges and its walls,
And all night I do be dreaming how the water calls and calls;
Of the booming of the breakers as they dash against the shore,
And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind I'll hear no more.
I am weary of these meadows, where the sun comes scorching down
Till the ways are dry and dusty, and the grass is burnt and brown;
And forever through my dreaming come the great waves’ lash and leap,
And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind upon the deep.
Should I die here in this country, and its stifling turf be pressed
Hot and heavy o'er my bosom, O‘ tis never I could rest;
Let me lie beneath the washing of the green and silent wave,
With the salt wind, the sea-wind, to sing above my grave.