Let Housman sing of Severn shore, Of Thames let Arnold sing, But we will sing no river more Save this where crowbars ring.
Let others sing of Henley, Of fashion and renown, But we will sing the thirteen locks That lead to Tonbridge town!
Then sing the Kentish river, The Kentish fields and flowers, We waste no dreams on other streams Who call the Medway ours.
When on the level golden meads The evening sunshine lies, The little voles among the reeds Look out with wondering eyes.
The patient anglers linger The placid stream beside, Where still with towering tarry prow The stately barges glide.
Then sing the Kentish river, The Kentish fields and flowers, We waste no dreams on other streams Who call the Medway ours.
On Medway banks the May droops white, The wild rose blossoms fair, O’ er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright, For water nymphs to wear.
And mid the blowing rushes Pan pipes a joyous song, And woodland things peep from the shade As soft we glide along.
Then sing the Kentish river, The Kentish fields and flowers, We waste no dreams on other streams Who call the Medway ours.
You see no freight on Medway boats Of fashions fine and rare, But happy men in shabby coats, And girls with wind-kissed hair.
The world’ s a pain forgotten, And very far away, The stream that flows, the boat that goes — These are our world to-day.
Then sing the Kentish river, The Kentish fields and flowers, We waste no dreams on other streams Who call the Medway ours.
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