There’s a village called Macosquin
‘tis very dear to me,
for that’s where I was born me lad
and buried there I’ll be.
You will talk of fancy cities;
their fame I’ll gladly spurn
to wander down the old green lane
and listen to the burn.
There stands a school upon the brow
of steep Macosquin brae;
throughout the years the faces change,
for youth flies swift away.
You’ll see the view from here, me lad;
the hills remote, serene.
Sure wars and strife seem far away
amidst this peaceful scene.
And there is Camus-
when evening church bells ring
the people gather quietly there,
to pray, and praise and sing.
Macosquin folk themselves, you know
are friendly, lad indeed;
They’re never slow to lend a hand
when someone is in need.
Come stand upon Macosquin bridge;
the rectory looms so tall.
We’ll see the chestnut blossoms sway,
and hear the wild birds call.
The sun glows warm upon the hills;
the drowsy meadows dream,
and time slips quietly away,
beside the rippling stream
We’re simple folks, we villagers;
we till this pleasant land.
But wiser men than me have said,
that this is what God planned.
So keep your bustling cities lad,
your crowds so full of care.
Here is my joy, my peace, my home,
Macosquin, green and fair.