There’s a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.
Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down?
Though language forms the preacher, ‘Tis good works make the man.
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart.
Who would not rather trust and be deceived?