Tune, _Alley Croker_.
That Britain’s like a precious gem
Set in the silver ocean,
Our Shakspeare sung, and none condemn
Whilst most approve the notion,--
But various parts, we now declare,
Shine forth in various splendour,
And those bright beams that shine most fair,
The western portions render;--
O the counties, the matchless western counties,
But far the best,
Of all the rest,
Is Somerset for ever.
For come with me, and we’ll survey
Our hills and vallies over,
Our vales, where clear brooks bubbling stray
Through meads of blooming clover;
Our hills, that rise in giant pride,
With hollow dells between them,
Whose sable forests, spreading wide,
Enrapture all who’ve seen them;
O the counties, &c.
How could I here forgetful be
Of all your scenes romantic,
Our rugged rocks, our swelling sea,
Where foams the wild Atlantic!
There’s not an Eden known to men
That claims such admiration,
As lovely Culbone’s peaceful glen,
The Tempe of the nation;
O the counties, &c.
To name each beauty in my rhyme
Would prove a vain endeavour,
I’ll therefore sing that cloudless clime
Where _Summer_ sets for ever;
Where ever dwells the Age of Gold
In fertile vales and sunny,
Which, like the promis’d land of old,
O’erflows with milk and honey;
O the counties, &c.
But O! to crown my county’s worth,
What all the rest surpasses,
There’s not a spot in all the earth
Can boast such lovely lasses;
There’s not a spot beneath the sun
Where hearts are open’d wider.
Then let us toast them every one,
In bowls of native cider;
O the counties, &c.
* * * * *
~Weather.~