Here's a song about Harlow, on the Essex Herts border - which is a place we may sometimes be rude about ourselves, but God help the poor bastard from outside who comes here and starts sneering. (A bit like most places in that, really.)

Here's the first verse anyway.

When I first came to Harlow,
it was muddy and grey, it was work brought me here,
I thought "I'll never stay", and at times, I could tell
you that God only knows how I stuck it in Harlow,
where the Stort River flows. We've been planted out here ,
and now, do what we may, there are plenty of people
who'd wish us away, why they'll sniff and they'll sneer,
and they'll look down their nose when the talk turns to Harlow,
where the Stort River flows. For the people in Harlow
live close to the ground and there aren't many palaces
here to be found, and the houses are small,
and the gardens are neat, and there's children in Harlow
still play in the street.

(cho)And here on our border
we're out on our own, and if you don't like us,
well, just leave us alone. In our wild woods and gardens
you'll find a red rose, in the green heart of Harlow,
where the Stort River flows.