To wander barefoot over the earth--- Is there a greater joy ?

I'm still eager to go
To those parts full of wonder 
    and good
Where I once used to grow,
Where it's seven
Verses up to heaven,
All the way through one big, 
    thick wood.

Where the inlets of lakes
are the home of the swan,
Where the white fields makes
People think of the steppes on 
    the Don.

Where the winds whirl all round
Piling snowdrifts waist-deep,
And the Pole's just beyond
A street in the North.

Life up here in the North
Isn't like in the South;
Honey and Wine doesn't quite flow
As in the tales, past our mouth.

Nothing's wrong with the sea -
fish in plenty,
But, mind---
No one's hauled in a Gold Fish-
They're too hard to find.

Not always are oranges
Served here for lunch,
And there's no magic coins
To buy them to munch.

To take off one's fur mittens
In the frost causes pain.
Deer and horses haul loads here
Snorting under the strain.

Nights are long, past endurance.
Summers, through, are light.
We store up enough light then
For the long winter night.