I love this purple-misted Isle,
This land where I was born.
The gorse-clad hills and bracken tops,
The fields of waving corn.
I love the heather-tinted rocks,
The wind and flying spray,
The seagulls crying in the wake
Of boats across the Bay.
I love to see the Scottish hills—
Their distant outlines plain,
The snow-clad slopes of Cumberland
In winter– ‘cross the main.
I love to see the ships come in
And safe at anchor lie
When squalls of rain blot out the land,
And raging seas leap high.
But best of all I love to hear
The gentle, lilting voice
Of kindly Manx folk greeting me:
It makes my heart rejoice,
To feel once more the friendly hand,
To hear the welcome warm,
To look into each smiling face
And know I have come home.
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