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my dorset home

Above the old maids castle
where there is no fortress stone
below the rocky cove
where smugglers once did roam
aside the lone arched doorway
which leads out to the sea
in the distance is the castle
which tells of history

somewhere in the distance
i hear the church loud bells
where grassed earth walls surround one
and the mad miller tells his tales

the winding river piddle
runs aside the trent
where common country yokels
once paid squires for their rent
and the writer poet teacher barnes
was for heaven sent

in the town where hardy walked
and first told of a tale
of country folk
and common jokes
not heard for a while
where farming folk once told such yarns
of cow and pig and stile
to artist bold
and poets old
who always wore a smile

in the stocks of village greens
the vagabonds were plentifull
the little church
the big white house
astride the millers lane
where gypsy folk rode wagons bold
one time then

see the port of the market town
a tower into view
spreads out to heathers downs
a little train runs through the park
once blessed by the crown
six eagles stand
guardians of treasures of the town
whilst the dolphins rise and ride the waves
all are homeward bound

see the heaths
where soldiers ride in tanks
and power station resides
close by the cottage
where once lawrence did hide
the cloudy hill
his memories are there still

the warrior stands on hill
his manhood in full view
across the bay
of ships and sands
and tourists brave the spray
where old queen stands
statued by hand
and looks out on the bay
from hill to toe
its quite a show
at regalla time of day

cottage of anne
to shifting sands
of artists
in the hay
through winding lanes
and heathered plains
and bees along the way
on blossomed trees
of fancy leas
one time the gypsies roamed
and the haystacks kissed the sky
thats where we durzet folks call home

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