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.