A jutting peninsula; wild and free,
a land of sun and sky and sea.
The sea its bounty plundered deep,
the land its crops its cattle, sheep.
The sea that shaped this Celtic land,
its weather lent a helping hand.
Its rain makes trees and crops to grow,
makes fields of green
and rivers flow.
Wind; the trees and shrubs to bend,
the giant wind farms power to send,
and endless waves to rocky shore,
crashing so with mighty roar!
For its sun the tourists throng,
to beaches golden, wide and long.
The fruit to ripen; buds to burst,
the harvest gathered; slake a thirst.
Come the winter months be found
its snow and ice piercing the ground,
tops its moors and strips the land,
Cornwall slumbers in its hand...
...till spring through winters darkness cheers,
and Cornwall wakes and reappears!
