More than seven centuries on this island space,
We left the continent for our own true place.
Visitors may come to understand
How our ancient craft came to be in this land.

The moon hangs large, yellow, and low,
A fire burns bright in the gloryhole.
Titian flames reaching to the night like a hand,
Our ancient craft is true in this land.

Outside the door, the world is serene,
In the annealer, the glass cools clean.
The rhythm of the flame melts what once was sand,
Our ancient craft is true in this land.

The glassblower turns in an instinctual pose
As he takes his pipe, concentrates, and blows.
To an artist, nothing else can be so grand,
His ancient craft is true in his land.

Like spices lured the explorers of old,
Glass is a treasure and a story untold.
The sapphire eyes of the gaffer demand
That his ancient craft remain true in his land.