I went back to the smugglers wain
where gypsies gathered and love remained
i saw the Kinson walks and stories were told
of customs times and hands were cold
i went back to that time of olde
where fields were rich in green and tales were told
i chanced upon the smugglers tracks
from canford magna to wally wack
where kinson folk did paint the scenes
where john did paint and poets dreamed
where rabbits ran the tracks and downs
of village greens and grassy mounds
where cottages of lady wimborne stood
so tall and proud next to the woods
where master guest was gaffer king
where sparrows sang first song of spring
the white house of pelhams graced the scene
down millhams lane with trees rich and mean
where stocks once stood upon the green
where witches danced at halloween
the vardos roamed the canford lanes
through Poole tracks and ferndowns horses manes
were rich in hair and supported ladies fair
in times of olde when fists were bare
the streams and river of the stour
where swans did glide and buds did flower
where brambles stretched the lanes and tower
where lads did fish for many an hour
the merry men of Morris regale
danced their foolish antic show
next to the quay of Poole hi ho
where johnny onion came to call
before the autumn winds and fall
those were the days of Poole's great fair
where mills and Stanley's boxed each night there
there beneath the canopy of stars n moonlight
where orchards grew and gypsies roamed
where canford was their noble home