Strange little town that sits upon it hilltop,
Surveying proudly valleys far below,
The River Torridge wending through green woodland,
Like ancient moat protecting you from foe.
Tall pavement seemed to a child a giant’s doorstep,
Old Market Sqaure where all who came could meet,
Small freindly inn with crackling log fire blazing,
And, best-rememberd, May Fair’s anual treat.
