• The Cornish pasty poem by Murray Lachlan Young

    There ye sit in steeping heat 
    Unique as all that went before 
    Both glazed and crimped and primed to eat 
    No splits or cracks surround thy core 

    And through thy weather beaten skin 
    Mysterious delights begin 

    Oh Pasty, pasty fast but slow 
    The ancient son of old Kernow 

    But oh no lamb nor Cranberry 
    Though tasty victuals they may be 
    No carrot, corn no petty pea 
    They could not enter into thee 

    To bruise thy pure simplicity 
    Or change thy authenticity 

    Oh Pasty, pasty fast but slow 
    When piping hot its best to blow 

    Such beef that Cornish meadows run 
    Cornish onions cut and peeled 
    Turnips grown neath Cornish sun 
    Potatoes grown in Cornish field 

    Before we take a careful bite 
    Then witness hunger pains take flight 

    Oh Pasty past fast but slow 
    In darkness brings the deepest glow 

    But if you be not working folk 
    With pick or hammer, hand in soil 
    So if ye do not wear the yolk 
    If ye know not honest toil 

    A pasty ever in your hand 
    Repeat to eat and girth will thicken 
    Yet that girth may understand 
    The ancient cry Kernow bis viken 

    Pasty, pasty fast but slow 
    Takes pride of place in old Kernow