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Lyrics by Sir Harold Boulton:

Coombe and Tor, green meadow and lane,

Birds on the waving bough.

Beetling cliffs by the surging main,

Rich red loam for the plough.

Devon’s the fount of the bravest blood

That braces England’s breed,

Her maidens fair as the apple bud,

And her men are men indeed.

When Adam and Eve were dispossess’d

Of the Garden hard by Heaven,

They planted another one down in the West,

‘Twas Devon, ’twas Devon, glorious Devon.

Spirits to old-world heroes wake,

By river and cove and hoe;

Grenville, Hawkins, Raleigh and Drake

And a thousand more we know.

To every hand the wide world o’er

Some slips of the old stock roam,

Loyal friends in peace, dread foes in war

With hearts still true to home.

Old England’s counties by the sea

From east to west are seven;

But the gem of that fair galaxy

Is Devon, is Devon, glorious Devon.

Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, Wales,

May envy the likes of we;

For the flower of the West, the first, the best,

The pick of the bunch us be;

Squab pie, junket and cider brew,

Richest cream of the cow’

What ‘ud Old England without ’em do?

And where ‘ud ‘un be to now?

As crumpy as a lump of lead

Be a loaf without good leaven,

And the yeast Mother England do use for her bread

Be Devon, be Devon, glorious Devon.