Heaven, I'm in heaven And the cares that hung around me through the week Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek

Which leads to Severn, the River Severn

Where my heart beats so that I can hardly talk

But it’s to another river that I walk, as I wander from the Hudnalls down to Mork.

On this river, the Wye river, the high bore rushes inland from the sea,

And in this great Severn tributary

There’s a building where a station used to be.

The station, the crumbling station, was a St Briavels halt in another country

And I used to drive right down there to the Wye

Then down the river on the other side

Past the ruined abbey that King Henry made shabby, with the dissolutions that gave him wealth but wrecked some sacred places, then down the road to Chepstow races.

There were revels, in St Briavels, at the George that landlord Arthur opened until three, to the anger of the Glos constabulary, who hated such illegal revelry

Oh I love to visit Yorkley (where the Severn can be seen)

And to walk uphill from Parkend to the pub at Moseley Green

When I travel up to Ruardean I would not ever dare

To resurrect that dreadful rumour about the touring bear

From Ruspidge to the Severn Bridge and Kent’s Green (no relation) down to Bream.

And I seem to find the happiness I seek When we're out together dancing cheek to cheek

Severn, I live by Severn

Which the early Roman invaders crossed in the early years AD,

To set up their temple to their god Nodens at Lydney.

If you want a river journey, don’t try the River Lyd, you might think just after, it’s the worst thing that you did.

I love to go to Whitecroft, the village of the Greeks, which is much better, I would say, than dancing cheek to cheek(s).

Sincere apologies to Irvin Berlin