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Birds on the waving bough,
Beetling cliffs by the surging main,
Rich red loam for the plough;
Devon's the fount of the bravest blood
That braces England's breed,
Her maidens fair as the apple bud,
And her men are men indeed.
When Adam and Eve were dispossess'd
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 and Drake,
And a thousand more we know;
To ev'ry land the wide world o'er
Some slips of the old stock roam,
Leal friends in peace, dread foes in war,
With hearts still true to home.
Old England's counties by the sea
From East to West are seven,
But the gem of that fair galaxy
Is Devon, is Devon, glorious Devon.
Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, Wales,
May envy the likes of we,
For the flow'r of the West, the first, the best,
The pick of the bunch us be;
Squab pie, junket, and cyder brew,
Richest cream of the cow,
What 'ud Old England without 'em do?
And where 'ud 'un be to now?
As crumpy as a lump of lead
Be a loaf without good leaven,
And the yeast Mother England do use for her bread
Be Devon, be Devon, glorious Devon.
(Harold Boulton/Edward German)