THE WEST COUNTREE by GEOFFREY DENNIS

NOW England is a fine countree,
And finer there is none,
Under the pale white moon when she
Covers the earth with mystery
Or under the broad bright sun.

And England is a wide countree
With many a place and shire
By lake, by lea, by land, by sea --
But the best of all is the West Countree:
The land of my desire.

Of the North Countree you hear them tell;
They say that it is grand.
I've climbed the rugged king Sca-Fell,
The gaunt Great Gable steep as hell;
The Cheshire dell, the North Sea swell,
The wild York moors -- I know them well.
So I can understand.

The Midlands and the South Countree;
They say that they are good.
I've travelled far them all to see:
The London street, the Shropshire lea,
The Chilterns dark with many a tree,
The Wrekin, Sussex by the sea ....
So I have understood.

But finer far is the West Countree
Woo'd by the swift Atlantic
With winds instead of words, you see,
And great sweet splendid waves, you see,
As kisses fierce and frantic.

The land that is best is the land in the west,
By the western waters swirled,
With the red sweet stag of wild Exmoor
And the red heathed combes that slope to the shore,
The purple heather of old Dartmoor
And the silent splendour of lone Yes Tor,
The waters' meet at the great sea's door
Of Torridge and Tawe at Appledore,
The swift tempestuous ocean roar
On Westward Ho, -- and oh, much more! --
The west best land in the world.

Now somebody came and said to me:
"You do not England know.
'Tis not this paltry little isle
With acres few and weather vile,
Ah no," they said, with a smile,
"That is not England. No!"
But I'm tired of the British Empire
That stalks the whole world o'er, --
The tiresome sun that never sets,
The crowing over fall'n De Wets
(Like Prussian soldiers after Metz):
I've heard it all before.
Not the Empire, but this England
Is the one true land for me,
The homeland, kingland,
The land I see,
The best of which is the ling-land, --
The West Countree.
* * * *
One thing I ask of Heaven:
A very little gold,
That I may go to Devon
And live there till I'm old.
And when my day is over
I pray that I may die
Near to the western clover,
Under the western sky,
Near the sound of waves that sunder,
Of winds that triumph free,
And the tempest-note of thunder
Of the trumpets of the sea, --
And all the holy wonder
Of the blessed West Countree.

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