A blending of the new world and the old,
In Rushden greets the stranger passing by,
Save when the hues of early morn enfold
The lowland meadows and the tranquil sky,
Or in that magic hour when coming night
Mellows the sun's last beams of fading light.

Old cottages, moss-grown with age and time,
Stand shaded still by gnarled and ancient trees,
That oft-times waken to their wonted rhyme
When Spring comes smiling on the southern breeze,
To leave the twinkling leaf buds strangely fair,
Soft points of crimson in the dancing air.

Thy joy remains, for with advancing years
Born of the freedom that thy sires have won,
A larger purpose in thy growth appears,
Which moulds a purer trust for everyone ;
Fair open roads and rest beside the way,
For weary toilers at the close of day.

Now sounds the traffic in thy busy streets,
The workshops clangour and the whirr of wheels,
Where once wound shady lanes and green retreats,
Which all thy growing change but half conceals,
Green fields and hedgerows meet at every turn,
And rolling cornfields where the poppies burn.

Long may thy ancient zeal and progress move
On wider streams than yet thy dreams have known,
Thy ev'ry precept born of acts of love,
To flower in beauty, by fond beauty sown :
That future years may bless thy sure increase,
And give thee knowledge and with knowledge peace.