Sing a song of Yorkshire, from the Humber to the Tees.
Of horses, wool and terriers, of pudding and of cheese.
I know no other county where the land is quite so fine.
England’s lovely county. And I’m proud to call it mine.
Where shining purple heather stretches far across the moor,
and the lapwing’s cry above me takes the place of traffic roar.
And peace comes drifting gently, there’s no place I’d rather be
than this land of hills and valleys, from the Pennines to the sea.
So when I’ve done my roaming, and when my step grows slow;
when heart and mind assure me that the time has come to go,
then let me rest in Yorkshire, for it’s there I want to lie
‘neath sun and wind and heather… and a gleaming Yorkshire sky.