The Rambler

The rambler set off from the village inn
And off down the road he went.
He turned on to a part through fern and whin,
Then by along fence he leant.

Now over a stile, and into a field,
And close to a hedgerow he kept.
The sun shone down, and his eyes he did shield;
By now he was looking windswept.

Over a stile, and down a footpath;
Through farmyard, and past an old yew.
Past a huge hollow rock called, "The Devil's Bath,"
Where, strongly, a north wind blew.

Over the hills and along the fells,
'Cross streams that were so clear,
Through enchanting little dwells,
And past a lonely weir.

Through two stone gate posts,
Down a track,
Where bluebells bloom in hosts,
And the rolling hills sweep back.

He stopped awhile and looked around
And pondered at the view.
Majestic moorland with green clad ground
Made him draw in breath anew.

'Long a sixteenth century packhorse track
And over a high hill's crest.
For just a moment the rambler looked back,
Than on to a hostel, and rest.

by Robert Fitzjohn

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