And it won its name in the winter, a hundred years ago.
There wasn’t a squire in Devon so famous as Rupert Leigh;
He was lord of the broad, rich acres, good-looking and fancy free.
He came of a race of giants, stood six feet two in his socks,
And once, for a drunken wager, with his fist he had felled an ox.
Dare-devil Leigh was his nick-name; he was last of a lawless line
Who had gone to the deuce full gallop, through women and cards and wine.
He wasn’t so bad as they were—he was more of a hunting squire,
And he freed the name a little from some of the ancient mire.
His wasn’t an easy country, but he’d take it every inch,