The Old Stream That Rises In The Foothills

The old stream that rises in the foothills and into a river does grow Through fields and by groves and by hedgerows on to the great ocean does flow The artists have sketched it's liquid beauty the poets about it have sung And none can mistake it for it's babble the one who has the silver tongue Millions of year before the birth of the first human it's liquid voice has never been still It has journeyed down from the high ground from it's source at the foot of the hill As old as the hill that it flows from it's birthdate none does know of to write Though stories of it have been published and poets their poems of it recite It has outlived millions of Seasons and is destined to live forever more Joined by drains, rills and smaller rivers on it's journey to the ocean shore It babbles on through town and village on down to the flat countryside And slows and grows on it's approach to the ocean to a mass of water deep and wide The stream that grows to a huge river it babbles on by night and day From it's birthplace at the foot of the mountain the mountain from here far away.