I’ve travelled far in foreign lands,
Midst scenes for ever new;
I’ve worshipped each as they unfurled,
Their grandeur to my view;
But the scene I love the best, and my eyes will e’er retain,
Is the view of Cullybackey, from the wooded hills of Maine.

There are some who swear by India,
Her jewels and her kings,
Her lofty snow-capped mountains,
Bazaars and other things
A fig for all these treasures, if I can but retain
My home in Cullybackey, midst the wooded hills of Maine.

As I lie beside my camp fire,
Under Africa’s starry sky,
I dream of Zulu impis,
And of battles long gone by;
Yet the chant they march in step to, keeps running through my brain;
‘This Cully – Cullybackey, my home beside the Maine.

After many years of hardships,
And risks not worth the game,
The wander lust is over,
So I’m for home again,
My heart is beating strangely, as I look from out the train,
On dear old Cullybackey, and the welcome hills of Maine.

Heather Jock 24th October 1919

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