by Donald Harley Nott (1908-96)

Oh let me now praise God's countye

Of credit and renown,

The shire of hops and cider-tree

And Hereford cattle brown.

The Worcester Vale bides in the east

And Wales is in the west,

But God's countye is twixt the two

And far away the best.

For it contains the hop-yards green,

The pickers at the cribs;

The orchard ripe, the hedgerows thick,

And horses, cows and pigs.

The yellow cornfield, now being cut,

Was ripened by the sun.

The yokels hit with knotted stick

At rabbits as they run.

The pheasants calling in the woods,

A waking brown-owl hoots,

And now I hear the partridges,

They're calling in the roots.

The blue kingfisher darts up-stream,

A fish caught in its bill.

The brown trout rise, the grayling play

An otter eats its kill.

I see the wild-duck from a pool

Rise up into a wedge,

The heron fishing on one leg

Close to the water's edge.

Let Worcester Vale bide in the east

And Wales stay in the west,

Let God's countye be twixt the two

And still remain the best.