Archangel Hill

A county mazed by winding lanes

Fields ever freshened by the rains

And rivers serving her as veins

Sussex

Her rolling Downs by Beachy Head

Where poets’ footsteps always tread

And writers’ thoughts are often led

Sussex

Her rivers, Arun, Rother, Ouse

Where fishing folk do sit and muse

Her autumn mists and morning dews

Sussex

Her ancient town of Hastings, Rye

And Winchelsea; though times may try

To oust their names - they’ll never die

Sussex

Her farming men, so bronzed and lean

Work harder now, for times are lean

They say ‘For England’ - but they mean

Sussex - our Sussex