wonder that my friend "Sylvanus Urban," otherwise Canon Beeching,
sings of its charm:--

Oh fair is Moreton in the marsh
And Stow on the wide wold,
Yet fairer far is Burford town
With its stone roofs grey and old;
And whether the sky be hot and high,
Or rain fall thin and chill,
The grey old town on the lonely down
Is where I would be still.

O broad and smooth the Avon flows
By Stratford's many piers;
And Shakespeare lies by Avon's side
These thrice a hundred years;
But I would be where Windrush sweet
Laves Burford's lovely hill--
The grey old town on the lonely down
Is where I would be still.

It is unlike any other place, this quaint old Burford, a right
pleasing place when the sun is pouring its beams upon the fantastic
creations of the builders of long ago, and when the moon is full there
is no place in England which surpasses it in picturesqueness. It is
very quiet and still now, but there was a time when Burford cloth,
Burford wool, Burford stone, Burford malt, and Burford saddles were
renowned throughout the land. Did not the townsfolk present two of its
famous saddles to "Dutch William" when he came to Burford with the
view of ingratiating himself into the affections of his subjects