Campden Voices 

You tells me, there’s nothin’ can be done
To save my wife and starving son
But you be lit by fire and candle light
To warm you on the coldest night.
With fresh picked vegetables there to eat,
Sat on plates of roasted meat.
Yon lurcher be a gnawin’ on a bone
Finer than any victuals in my! ‘ome.

You leaves me, stood, out in the yard
Tellin’ me just how hard
Your family’s suffered here of late
Starin’ at an empty grate. 
But bisn’t they and bisn’t thee
A sittin’ round the Christmas tree
Singing songs of stars and gold
While I be ‘ere stood in the cold?

To you, master I do implore!
But with that he do close the door
On my word and in my face
As though I’m just an empty space.
With now no reason for to stay
I slowly turns an’ walks away.
Drawn along the cobbled street
Echoin’ to my hobnail feet.

I cannot return with empty hand
I have to borrow from of the land.
Through the alder hedge I push
Ripped by thorns on brier bush.
I feel the blood runnin’ thin
And flowin’ warm across my skin.
I lift my arm and quickly lick
With hunger pains and feelin’ sick.

Pulling ‘taters from a berry
Not enough for makin’ merry.
Just enough to lift the latch
And offer to my starving batch.
Then off into the dead of night
Under darkness taking flight.
Back to empty plate and spoon
Seen only by a freezin’ moon.

I catch my toe and fall right there
Onto a rabbit caught in a snare.
From that wire I sets his spirit free
And take his body ‘ome for tea.
I show my family what I’ve brought
Potatoes and rabbit freshly caught.
We thanked the Lord on Christmas day
And prayed for poverty to go away!!

Over quiet water, brook,
Was built a sleeper span.
To carry crop filled truck
And common labouring man.
Where the quiet water’s yield,
A brighter view, and sweeter smell,
Winding o’er the cowslip fields,
As clear as any drinking well.

Beneath the quiet water brook
The stickleback is seen to bite
Upon the tadpole - legless took
And downed in loosing fight.
The Moorhen flies in hunger search
With plunging, underwater dive
Bringing fish up to her perch
To swallow down alive.

In the quiet water brook
The legs of boys do make
A watery trek to take a look
For an ancient, pirate lake.
The water soon is deeper
Rising way above the half
Of youthful striding shins
Squeezing boot to wading calf.

Upon the quiet water brook
Float twigs and leaves and straw.
And feathers from an eider duck
Who’s nest was ragged once more.
Flotsam and jetsam floats
From people without names
Overtaken by paper boats
Made for water racing games.

Runs the quiet water brook
From the pool of Haydon’s mill
Where she twists around the crook
To wend her way at will.
She passes Jimmy Strange’s -
On through the Loveridge ground
And across the Paxford ranges
Where she flows without a sound.

We was packin’ up just ater fower
Late a’ternun and darkness was near.
It alus seems to ’appen the same
At that time of the year.
We wuz all froze, ‘sept ol Bill Grove
He reckoned he wasn’t cold no more,
Somethin to do with ‘is sailin’
Up by Russia in the fust world war.

Some birds was settlin’ in for the night
They was a perchin’ up on the roof.
Bert Bruce chuckled as he though
He could play a bit of a spoof.
“What colour’s that black crow”
Shouted Bert to Pecker Howell.
“I’m to busy to look”,
Said Pecker, “a claynin’ this trowel”

I asked ol’ Pecker,
Who I always called Fred,
If ‘e’d clearly ‘eard
What Bert ‘ad just said.
Pecker looked back and grunted
I’m too busy a claynin’ these tools
To spare any of my time
A listnin’ to fools.

We was back at it
Next day - just after eight.
Fust we lit a few sticks
In the Vicar’s new grate,
‘Cos the weather was worse
An’ them birds had all flown,
So we urched round the fire
Listenin to Bert ‘avin a moan.

Fred’s bike had fell over
An’ his flask had just bust.
He Said “I’ve got nuthin to yut
Not even yesterd’y’s crust”,
“An’ them birds ‘ave all gone
So now I’ll never know,
What was the colour
Of that ol’ black crow”.

A travelling man came up to me
Asking directions of Park road.
I scratched me yud to some extent
It’s summut I should have knowed.
I couldn’t think without a drink
So I suggested ‘e ease ‘is load
And imbibe upon the cider jar
In the pub across the road.

‘E said ‘e thought ‘e recognised
Just where we was a sittin’,
‘E could tell by the smell
But somethin’ was a missin’.
I told ‘im the smell was water
A floodin’ in the drain
That’s ‘ow this narrow street
Got it’s name of “Watery lane”

‘E was sure there was a garage
An’ then ‘e said he thinks
There was a fish and chip shop
Run by a man called Billy Jinks.
An’ what about the pigeon lofts
The orchards with bee hive domes.
I told ‘im they ‘ad long made way
For rich folk’s retirement ‘omes. 

Then ‘e looked across the square
And said “you take’s me for a fool.
Over there’s St. Catharine’s Church
Next door to the Catholic School”.
I ‘ad to take me ‘at off
An’ wipe the sweat away,
I was a ‘opin’ for another drink
An’ ‘opin’ ‘e would pay.

‘E turned to a dark haired man
With fifty years a drinkin’ scrumpy.
Who warned ‘im strait away
“This stuff’ll make yer grumpy,
It can cause yer legs to bend
In some very funny ways,
Gives yer ‘ands the shakes
An’ muddle up yer days”.

“Never mind the cider, man!”
‘E sez to my surprise.
“I think this man I’m drinking with
Has pulled the wool across my eyes”.
Now I sees ‘e’s got a wobble on
So I tells ‘im what I’ve said is true
“Come out side with me” sez I
An’ I’ll prove it just for you.

Prove your case sez, ‘e
An’ I will buy a large amount of beer
Enough for you to drink all year
In the bar of the Volunteer.
I fills ‘is mug up from the jug
By now ‘Is eye’s be open wide
So’ I sez “I’ll prove to you
There’s no Park Road outside”.

I ‘elps ‘im from ‘is stool
to look out from the door,
The cars be bumper to bumper
Each day there’s more an’ more.
I sez “You won’t find any spaces
So now I thinks I’m owed
All them pints you promised me
‘Cos you can see! there’s “No Park!” Road”.

Charlie’s Layers

Upon my paper round
One place I used to stop
Was at ol’ Charlie Ladbrook’s -
Behind his Butcher’s shop.
Through the alley at the back
Was where I found ol’ Charlie sat,
Eating tomatoes with pork pie,
While dropping crumbs on his ginger cat. 

“Come in here my bwoy,”
I’d hear old Charlie shout
“I be in the kitchen here,
Though today I have bin out.
I’ve had to do some gardening
And mend me chicken pen
For every day this ruddy week
I’ve lost a layin’ hen.”

Although I was feeling sorry
Charlie said “Now don’t you worry lad
I’ve got another source of eggs
So things be not too bad”.
He showed me an old basket
Filled - he said to me
With some of the ripest eggs
He’d got from his ‘laying’ tree.

He said the eggs was secret
And hid beneath the bottom leaves
He would often come across
A plate of bread and cheese.
He said he once found mouldy faggots
And two screw top jars of lard -
But lately things was not so good
Since Pyment’s cleaned his yard.

Yesterday - Ernie Lockyer looked
From the window of the Mill
Saying as how he felt
That the chickens looked quite ill
And how his worry was
That the chickens wouldn’t lay.
But Charlie said, “ don’t worry lad-
They ‘ave bin layin’- out in the sun all day!”.