Yodel

On hills where mist and memory twine,
A voice climbs up the craggy line—
A yodel sings, both wild and free,
From valley low to lofty peak.

It leaps like lambs on summer grass,
A lilting cry that dares to pass
Through pine‑scented breezes, soft and keen,
A note that shivers, bright and keen.

From shepherd’s fold to village square,
The echo rolls on bright, clear air—
A mingling of high, bright call
And low, warm hum that answers all.

So let the mountains hear your sound,
Where every ridge and hollow’s found,
And in the yodel’s bright refrain,
Feel Britain’s ancient heart remain.