West Country & Western

West Country & Western

I was born where the Avon bends,
The Tamar darts and the Dart up-ends,
In a parrick you might miss at night,
Where the Otter and the Parrett fight.

I was born where the stones stand-up,
When my Pa taught me to long-man up,
To roll my arrs and burr my talk,
And fly my mane like a horse of chalk.

You might-be even hear the fiddle-folk
Beneath the sunset glowing cliffs of red –
You may just hear the bleat and croak
From herds of raw-wools singing low,
And spinning-out their thread.
From this side of the Barrow,
So it’s said,
Tomorrow’s days ahead.

So come and take a trip with me
Upon the Highway 303,
The outer-limits of outdoors
Await between the downs and moors.

It’s said we don’t like strangers round these parts –
By grockles, I’ll be bound…
Don’t fret, we hamlet folk won’t fuss,
Cause who could be more strange than us?

You might-be even hear a banjo twang
Beneath the moonraked moonlight, down our way.
You may just hear a lively gang
Of applejacks upon Midsummer night,
If you should stray.
From this side of the Severn,
So they say,
All Heaven comes to play.