Ledbury

I rest awhile on Dog Hill Wood

And view the scene where Masefield stood

To write his poems of renown

Down there below in Ledbury Town.

John Abel's Market House I see

Built there in sixteen sixty-three;

A house on props - a room above,

A favourite haunt of cooing dove

And flying pigeons near Church Lane

To all and sundry to proclaim

That surely this - this Market Place

Should think awhile and just retrace

The history of a former day

Near to the church where locals pray.

Where Roundhead fought with Cavalier

And yeoman swilled their daily beer,

Where Bye Street's widow did abide

And tanners beat the stinking hide,

Where sheep and ox and swine were sold

And bears were baited, we are told,

Where colts from Wales were chopped and changed

While in the High Street stalls were ranged

And butchers bought and sold their meat

And let the blood run down the street

Until it reached an open stream

Where slops were thrown - t'was most unclean.

And smelly straw and muck were thrown

Where prowling cur ate rotting bone;

And nearby stood the Feathers Inn

Next to the Chapel of St. Katherine,

That noble saint and servant Mabel

(Some say she once lived at the Hazel)

Rested here to end her times

Attracted by the belfry's chimes.

At Upper Hall lived Squire Skipp

Who ruled the town and used the whip

To quell the mob and make them pay

The tolls imposed on Market Day.

Then came the Martins, Biddulphs, Skinners

To rid the town of whores and sinners

Until we come to present day

And see the church and hope and pray,

That Ledbury Town will ever be

A home, a rest of sanctity,

Where streets are clean and flowers grow

And filthy streams no longer flow,

Where people live bereft of strife

And live a long and prosperous life.