Arracombe Wood

Some said, because he wud’n spaik Any words to women but Yes and No, Nor put out his hand for Parson to shake He mun be bird-witted. But I do go By the lie of the barley that he did sow, And I wish no better thing than to hold a rake Like Dave, in his time, or to see him mow.

Put up in churchyard a month ago, “A bitter old soul,” they said, but it wadn’t so. His heart were in Arracombe Wood where he’d used to go To sit and talk wi’ his shadder till sun went low, Though what it was all about us’ll never know. And there baint no mem’ry in the place Of th’ old man’s footmark, nor his face; Arracombe Wood do think more of a crow-- ’Will be violets there in the Spring: in Summer time the spider’s lace; And come the Fall, the whizzle and race Of the dry, dead leaves when the wind gies chase; And on the Eve of Christmas, fallin’ snow.