To J.
S.
M.
The wine they drink in Paradise They make in Haute Lorraine;
God brought it burning from the sod To be a sign and signal rod That they that drink the blood of God Shall never thirst again.
The wine they praise in Paradise They make in Ponterey,
The purple wine of Paradise,
But we have better at the price;
It's wine they praise in Paradise,
It's cider that they pray.
The wine they want in Paradise They find in Plodder's End,
The apple wine of Herford,
Of Hafod Hill and Herford,
Where woods went down to Herford,
And there I had a friend.
The soft feet of the blessed go In the soft western vales,
The road of the silent saints accord,
The road from heaven to Herford,
Where the apple wood of Herford Goes all the way to Wales.
