Beautiful land at England’s tip,
Land of plough, and mine, and ship,
Land of sea, and sand, and gorse,
Land of meadows, hills and horse.
This land-my land-where deep within,
Naked miners scratched for tin,
Toiling deep ‘neath granite crust,
In Redruth, Camborne and St. Just.
Engine houses still stand tall,
A cenotaph to “One and All”,
From Torpoint east-to Lands End west,
Cornishmen true…the very best.
Tintagel’s north, to Lizard’s south,
Gribben Head, to Camel’s mouth,
Port Isaac , west to fair St. Issey,
Whitsand Bay, to Mevagissey.
Throughout this land of rugged stone,
This land we’re proud to call our own,
You’ll hear the song…the sound…the joy,
Of Fishermen’s choirs from Looe and Fowey.
They sing of “Trelawney” and “Camborne Hill”,
“White stockings worn” “Horses…still”
Farming the land, fishing the seas,
Faces weathered by the breeze.
We’ve blasted rock beneath our feet,
Manned the ships within “The Fleet”,
Around the world our fame is known,
“Cousin Jack” stands proud, alone.
Where’er the flag of Piran flies,
Cornish hearts and spirits rise,
And where the “Oval” ball is found,
At “Hellfire” and “Twickers” hallowed ground.
Where sporting rugby tales unfold,
Proud thoughts are of the “Black and Gold”,
Memories still fresh, not dim… nor foggy,
Ten thousand throats sang “Oggie Oggie”.
And shall this land, this soil we’ve tilled,
This beating Cornish heart…. be stilled?
Will Piran’s flag, so proud, so true,
Succumb to yellow stars on blue?
The fishing’s gone, our mining too,
Farming’s poor!..So what to do?
If things for Cornwall get too nasty,
We won’t just sit and eat our Pasty.
We show the world, just as before,
In days gone by, in days of yore,
We’ll return to our age-old industry,
Of wreckin’ me ‘ansome!! Just wait and see!!!
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