The church bells ring in Holsworthy,
Beneath the summer sky,
Though silence hits the Manor ground
Where rides have passed us by.
The paperwork went missing,
The giant wheel stands still,
But traditions carved in ancient stone
Are bound by deeper will.
At high noon on the Wednesday,
The Pretty Maid appears,
A ritual of light and grace
That’s echoed through the years.
The Court Leet walked the tavern floors,
With ale and pride in hand,
To keep the spirit of the fair
Alive across the land.
From flower shows to music chords,
The tractors lead the way,
The heart of Devon beats as strong
On this, the Fair Week day.
Though iron tracks are absent now,
And lights have failed to glow,
The soul of St. Peter’s legacy
Is all that we need know.
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