La France, it always seems to draw
We Cornishmen abroad.
I wonder if old Breton men
Found solace without sword.
Perhaps the open arms were there
From wholesome Cornish maids.
Making welcome fishermen
After nets were laid.
The pool I think would then be wide
That sat by village green
And perhaps those Celtic tongues
Made more than Brie and Cream.
And then again those Cornishmen
Were oft away from home
And sailed away to Brittany
On wave and sea and foam.
Perhaps they strayed a little when
The distance made them moan
The seed they sowed perhaps took root
And found its long way home.
Brothers in legs