Born in God’s own county, I first breathed Yorkshire air,
was bathed in Yorkshire water, was fed on Yorkshire fare,
but now I live in Lincolnshire, where men are coarse and loud,
not like we shy, retiring Tykes, taciturn but proud.
Boasting goes against our grain, our modesty’s innate,
but all that’s best’s from Yorkshire so let’s set record straight.
Shakespeare came from Barnsley, Einstein came from ‘ull,
Mandela comes from Doncaster, as did Jethro Tull.
Attlee came from Batley, and, though not widely known,
King Ethelred were Ilkley-bred, so was Saint Joan.
Our Queen was born in Bradford, a fate determined by her dad
so she could bat for Yorkshire if she’d been born a lad.
And from the myriad calls to battle rousing men to prove their mettle,
as a rallying call there’s none to touch the Yorkshire war-cry, ‘How much?‘
The noblest lines in literature, in poetry or prose,
were all inspired by Yorkshire, by the sign of the white rose.
So, though I live in Lincoln (and couldn’t live elsewhere),
I hail from Yorkshire, I’m a Yorkshireman, so there.