GLORIOUS
DEVON
GLORIOUS
DEVON
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Written by Sir Edward German (1862 - 1936, born Edward German Jones).
Combe and tor,
green meadow and lane,
birds on the waving bough.
Beetling cliffs by the surging main,
rich red loam for the plough.
Devon's the font of the finest blood
that braces England's breed.
Her maidens fair as the apple bud
and her men are men indeed.
When Adam and Eve were dispossed
of the garden, hard by Heaven,
they planted another one down in the West -
'twas Devon, 'Twas Devon, glorious Devon.
Spirits to old world heroes wake
by river and cove and hoe.
Grenville, Hawkins, Raleigh, Drake
and a thousand more we know.
To every land the wide World oer
some slips of the old stock roam.
Leal friends in peace,
dread foe in war,
with hearts still true to home.
Old England's Counties, by the sea,
from East to West are seven.
But the gem to that fair galaxy
'tis Devon, 'tis Devon, glorious Devon.
Dorset, Somerset, Corn'all, Wales
may envy the likes of we.
For the flower of the West,
the first, the best,
the pick o' the bunch us be.
Squab pie, junket and cider brew,
richest of cream from the cow.
What'd old England wi'out 'em do,
and where'd un be to now?
As crumpy* as a lump o' lead
be a loaf wi'out good leaven.
But the yeast mother England
did use for her bread
be Devon, be Devon, glorious Devon.
* soft
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