On a brisk autumn day,
Atop a great hill;
The voice was born,
To warm off a chill.

'Tis a voice of reason,
To instruct and to guide;
A voice to enlighten,
And sometimes to chide.

Born of the mountains,
And the modest of means;
Yet echoes the voice,
Of rich English scenes.

And to this very day.
At the ridge on the hill;
Old remnants remain,
And the voice echoes still.

The voice is constant,
In even, continuous retorts;
It stays with him always,
A guardian angel of sorts.