There my Mother lives, moorland and tree.
Sight o' the blossoms! Devon to me!
Where my fathers walked, driving the plough;
Whistled their hearts out—who whistles now?—
There my Mother burns fire faggots free.
Scent o' the wood-smoke! Devon to me!
Where my fathers sat, passing their bowls;
—They've no cider now, God rest their souls!
There my Mother feeds red cattle three.
Sup o' the cream-pan! Devon to me!