By The Avon

IN the meadows by the Avon, Underneath the slope of Bredon, There we often used to wander, My girl and I.

All around the thrushes singing, And on Sunday, church bells ringing, Overhead the soft clouds floating, White in the sky.

Still the waters of the Avon Flow so gently under Bredon, And on Sunday bells be ringing, Clouds floating high.

But I’m sick at heart and lonely, Nothing here has changed, save only Just we two, who once were courting, My girl and I.