When God with gentle caring hand
Smoothed away the stone and sand,
Leaving not a feature clear
To mar the fens of Lincolnshire
He did not simply toss away
The superfluity of clay,
But bore it through the Vale of York
To aid him in his greatest work.
Of his six days toil here much was spent,
For surely no mere accident
Of wind and rain could ever yield
The awesome beauty here revealed?
If agnosticism you'd retain
Or an atheist remain,
Don't walk along these eastern shores
Don't gaze across these northern moors
Don't wander through these lovely dales
To hear the songs of Wharfe and Swale.
Though born a son of Lincolnshire
Where hearth and home are still held dear,
Yet my soul is wont to roam
Where cottages of Yorkshire stone
Huddle close by mine and mill,
Or lonely, stand by purling ghyll
Where heather scented breezes chase
Cloud shadows o'er the moorland face.
Where megalithic boulders brood
On lofty heights in solitude.
Where, by misty arms embraced,
And know I've found my place.