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 for no better thing than to hold a rake
Like Dave, in his time, or to see him mow.
Put up in the churchyard a month ago,
‘A bitter old soul,’ they said, but i 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 gives chase;
And on the Eve of Christmas, fallin’ snow.