Mason farmers born of the soil
To tend this earth, to sweat and toil.
Grown in granite, nourished in lime,
Honed and weathered by the winds of time.
Who smoothed and shaped these hallowed stones
With calloused hands and aching bones,
And built nirvana in this realm
Of oak and chestnut, beech and elm.
A citadel conceived to stay,
As night follows day, follows night, follows day.

Hewn into the valley side,
Where wolf and deer and boar abide,
Homes of honey stone and oak
Pour gentle wisps of scented smoke.
Fields of leek, a fragile door,
Holding back the forest floor.
As nature joins the frantic race
To reclaim its own allotted space,
Red tiled roofs guard their domain
As wind follows rain, follows wind, follows rain.

Northwards, the delta of wild geese fly
And herald another spring is nigh.
Nature's sign that menfolk know
To leave their homes till winter's snow,
And build the cities, towns and spires,
Far away in France's shires.
Families left to take the strain
Till south the wild geese fly again.
Unrelenting as the years unfold,
As heat follows cold, follows heat, follows cold.

Through generations young and old,
With each stone laid a story told,
Of poverty and endless toil,
To eek a living from barren soil.
But there's a pride, an inner calm,
In these masons that built Notre Dame.
A spirit grown within from birth
To love the stone, to love the earth.
To be a part of nature's plan,
As boy follows man, follows boy, follows man.