This County of Wiltshire holds many memories,
Of old standing stones, and avenues of trees,
Rolling green hills that are topped with old sites,
Where battles were fought, or Druids practised their rites.

White horses carved in chalk, gaze down
Onto valleys beneath, or over an old town,
Keeping silent guard over the White Horse Vale,
And ever-watchful, over a long lost trail.

On the plains, old barrows stand in silent array.
Clasping their secrets of long-ago day,
Chiefs buried here, or even an old King,
Celtic, Roman, or could even be an Old Viking.

Many old roads criss-cross over the downs,
That led from old villages, and on to the towns,
Where chariots used to race, and Legions did march,
Through avenues of Elm, Yew, Beech and Larch.

Villages scattered, each side of the Avon,
Set in wooded valleys, the home of the raven,
These homesteads have not changed much in all of their years,
Since village life began, with landlords and overseers.

And so it is, in this County of ours,
You can wander at ease, and while away the hours,
Dreaming of days long ago, of what it used to be
To be living in a paradise such as our own County.