The Shire I roam, My home.
From far into Buckland,
To West March,
Fields of green,
Gardens of beauty.
Porches alight,
Pipes a bright,
Friendly are the neighbors,
Kind are the travelers.
Low rolling hills,
High tree branches that see the moon.
To eat at 1st Breakfast,
thoughtful for 2nd breakfast,
happy to see eleven’s roll by,
relieved for Luncheon,
Gladly accept Afternoon tea,
Grateful for dinner,
and much obliged for supper.
A place of comfort, a place to rest.
The Shire I roam, My home.