There's a quaint old inn on the spur of a hill,

In a fair sunny place that I love.

Where the cool summer breeze comes through whispering trees,

And the lark's sweet song from above.

I love the old fashioned windows with the nooks and crannies and beams.

How oft here I have quaffed the good foaming Ale and indulged in pleasant day dreams.

How cheery the Host with the smile and the toast.

How lovely the good lady seems.

The fast setting sun, his days race almost run, would shed through the window his beams.

Sweet Slindon in Sussex, the spot nearest me,

Quaint Inn with the old fashioned charms.

Where 'ere I roam I'll be thinking of home,

And my friends of 'Sir George Thomas Arms'.