Beyond the smooth brown hills,
Within the Midlands,
First heard when this earth was young,
And forgotten overtime,
A sound, strange and alarming,
From a Sailor and his boat,
In a past, remote and far,
And now suddenly,
Echo faint and shrill,
Of the young sailor’s Whistle,
Heard once again,
At Jebba.

Valiant Suburb,
Of Swamps thorny and luxuriant,
Beside the banks of,
“Quora” 
Flood Waters of the Ancients,
The River Niger,
Where fishes mime,
Echoes Sonorous and Silent,
And valleys, like the hills,
Drenched in sunshine glow,
Like Tellem of old.

Behold waters deep and warm,
Where Richard once met,
With Natives young and elderly,
As John leaned rowing at the first bend,
Along  these creeks.
 
Seventy and five score years hence,
Courageous and brave,
Lads from Cornwall,
Sons of Lemon,
The in-keeper,
Son of Lander,
Sailed to ken,
Whence the Quora, like’
All the rivers run,
Into  the sea.

Two thousand and two score moons sighted already,
Full moons round and gleaming counted in season,
Along with stars across the sky,
Within these midlands,
Of the deep, and dark, and fertile,
Where same breezes cool and warm,
Blow adrift dry leaves,
Across paths trodden then, 
As of now,
By Sons, great and grand,
Of  Lemon.