St. Piran was an Irishman
Who floated here you see
Upon a millstone, so they say
But between just you and me,
It's a proper Irish story
As I think you will agree.

How he crossed the ocean
Is neither there or here,
But he caused a big commotion
When he landed up by Gear.
For the Cornish were a savage race
And dead against conversion.

However, Piran's luck was in
For, quite by accident,
He found out how to smelt tin,
And fell to praising heaven
For the miracle that made his name
Well known as far as Devon.

He baptised every living soul
That he could lay his hands on,
And in the end, so I've been told,
Those miserable sinners
Felt bound to vote him, one and all
The Patron Saint of Tinners.

Standing firm for a thousand years
There is St. Piran's Cross
Beside some remains of the second church
and not far from the one that was "lost"!

Made with three holes instead of four
And crowned with golden lichen,
Deep rooted an marram grass and sand
And the ancient Celt tradition.

It marked the boundary of church and state
That existed in days of old,
Until the church was taken down
And all the land sold.

The first church was the Oratory
Many centuries old,
And built near Piran's hermitage
For service, as is told.

In later years a bigger church
Was needed by the people,
And so they built beside the Cross
A church without a steeple.

It stood there, with its massive tower
For seven hundred years.
Until beneath the blown sand's power
Began to disappear.

Then came the time to take it down
Each part with loving care,
And build again in Lambourne town
The church we cherish there.

How long its been there no one knows
Perhaps three thousand years.
Built to shelter and protect
The ancient from their foes.

In medieval days the Round
Was decked in colours fine
And called the Plan-an-Gwarry
For plays, with song and rhyme.

And since that time the Round has been
A place for recreation,
Especially in the latter years
For tea-treat celebrations.

Today the Round is used again
For ancient plays, and new,
The Cornish Gorsedd thrice proclaimed,
And Bands, and wrestling too.

Gear Sands

Walk out among the sandhills
to that ancient secret place
where no sound of the busy world
can ever penetrate.

Hear only the whisper of the wind in the grass
or the hum of a passing bee.
And overhead in the summer sky
the endless song of the lark. 

Time now to think, and to know yourself
While the past is close at hand
And then you will find a quiet content
For this is Piran's land.