In Strid Wood, where whispers weave, And ancient tales of old conceive, There flows a river wild and free, A murmured song of mystery. Through Yorkshire's heart, it winds its way, The Wharfe, in sunlight's golden sway, Its waters dance with graceful might, A symphony of liquid light. In Strid Wood's depths, the shadows play, Where secrets lurk, both night and day, Among the trees, their branches tall, Whispers linger, softly call. The river's rush, a constant thrum, Through wooded paths where fairies come, Their laughter echoes in the breeze, As sunlight filters through the trees. In Strid Wood, where legends dwell, Beneath the ancient, mossy spell, The Wharfe flows on, a steadfast guide, Through Yorkshire's heart, where dreams abide. So let us wander, hand in hand, Through Strid Wood's enchanted land, Where river's flow and stories weave. In Yorkshire's heart, forever to believe.