Sworn

Sworn

Upon the misty hills of Devon's green,
I took an oath, a pledge both deep and true,
To guard the heather, stone, and ancient scene,
Where sheep in silent flocks the morning chew.

My word, like iron forged in coal‑black fire,
Binds heart to hand, through storm and quiet night;
No tempting lure of city’s bright desire
Can shake the vow that burns with steady light.

I am sworn to keep the old oak’s rustling shade,
To stand beside the lane where children play,
To share my loaf, my coat, my humble aid,
When winter bites and winds have their way.

So let the world proclaim its fleeting fame,
My honour’s sworn – and ever bears my name.