From Songs of Sheffield by Lily Goldberry

The March to Sheffield

"I see that it's time to return to my home

To my chair, my love, and fireplace made of stone

Through fields of gold

I see tiny hills of green

Sheffield, my own home, keeps calling to me

The Diggles, and Brownlocks, the Ropers and Tudds

The Greenhills, the  Haywards, the old halfling blood

The families protect us, through their own ways

Sheffield I'm here to spend all of my days

The smell in the air will signal the bread

With honey and butter and with knife so I spread

I sit in my chair and my love by the fire

Sheffield nothing else more will I require."




The Festival of Four

It's time for the harvest in Autumn once more

Give yields to our neighbors both wealthy and poor

The smell of apple pie and the corn o' so high

At last we may celebrate The Festival of Four

There's ol' Becky Tudd selling smoked pork on rolls

The young tumble down a short ways from the knoll

We all hated working, smiles just a facade

Summer is finished at last thank the gods

The contests abound, though few expect a win

We cheer on the fighters with lute and mandolin

We cheer now "HUZZAH!" as the champion grins

A trophy of wood, with a flagon built in.

At last the good sun o'er Sheffield will set

Another priceless year one must never forget

The cool evening air ends the joyous affair

Though the event may be done there is no one upset