Seeds will grow where seeds will blow,
Where better soil is tilled,
When young ones seek a greener grass,
That hopes and dreams be filled.
Bartered birthright, native soil,
The émigré shall faithful toil,
That fruits will bloom where e’re they sow,
Where fresh young seed shall gentle blow.
Sweet wagtail sings her sad lament,
When fledglings fly their nest,
As mothers weep and fathers sigh,
Their blood shall be the guest;
Of lesser folk so far away,
No peace in sleep for émigré,
Yet children keep their blood and name,
From seed and soil from whence they came.
Their brows will water far off fields,
But will the daisies grow,
As wild they did on pastures where,
The Baltic breezes blow.
The stork, the skylark, swallows, swift,
When homeland calls, their wings will lift,
But what can lure our kin that stray,
Return to home the émigré.
Michael (Walsh) June 2013
Quite_write@yahoo.co.uk