I knew a spot, I
know it still
We used to call it
Jefferies Hill
The nettle, and
the thistle raised their heads
Amongst them
hungry donkeys fed.
The geese and
pigs, were want to stray
And children
revelled at their play.
Rough and
uncultured, wild and free
As Gypsy children
used to be.
And on the corner
of the hill
Were ruins of an
old Wind Mill.
And nearby meet
the Pugilists
To bruise each
other with their fists.
And on the walls,
and on the ground
Their comrades
used to gather around
And when some dreadful
blow was struck
They praised the
brutal skill and pluck.
And then there
came a man of peace
To drive away the
pigs and geese
And cultivate the
barren hill
And clear away the
ruined mill.
And on the spot
established there
A house of god, a
house of Prayer
And built a school
to teach the young
In paths of
righteousness to run.
Anon.
No comments:
Post a Comment