“Good Essex” A poem by G. Sarham

Our Essex is no high land, wild
In vaunt of lakes and vales,
Or mountain - brooks or spumey cliffs,
Or tarns, or moors, or vales;
Of Essex, hence, we seldom boast -
Nor tell no strangers tales!

Yet Essex earth is good earth, where
Both wheat and barley grow
From strong, stiff clay, in furrows wrought,
As any man may know;
Nor is there tilth in England whence
Men reap more as they sow.

And Essex farms are fine farms, so
That men who own their soil
May send their fruits to market and
Owe no man for their toil;
Thus moated halls in Essex are
And stalwart hearts and loyal.

In Essex too, are fair names, culled
From Fields and Greens and Ends,
Or Great, or Little Somethings, as
Distinctions between friends,
With Easters, Teys, and Rodings nine
Where Roden river bends.

And Essex towns are quiet. They lie
A-dream the long years down,
Their bulging, white-walled houses laced
In beams of oaken brown;
And Colchester for oysters famed;
A flitch at Dunmow’s known.

In Essex men are free - both Church
And Chapel men – as well,
As was when Master Cromwell reared
His Ironsides they tell;
For independence claims them, who
In Essex country dwell.

Our Essex, then, all widely spread
From London to the sea,
In rich, fat roads, so long has made
An English granary,
That, with its folk, towns, fields and ways,
A rare old place we see.

So though our land is low or flat,
With nought of lakes and dales;
And though our coasts are often sludge
Where rivers crawl like snails;
And though our tongues are cautious, so
We tell no strangers tales;
We Essex are very sure,
We’re absolutely certain sure,
The more we hear, the more we’re sure,
No other land avails!