The Bell of St. Michael’s Church it toiled,
As his namesake was to his tomb conveyed,
The congregation filed from the Church,
To the organ strains by the Maestra played.
He the hill-top farmer called to his rest
Stunning all who knew him by how sudden he died,
How short it seems since his parents went
He comes there now to be laid beside
His friends filed past, his loved ones grieved,
Condolences expressed, some wept aloud,
Observant ones they scanned the scene,
When some of them spotted a face in the crowd.
The face of one who struck by remorse,
That his erstwhile friend he’d left in neglect,
Put it off too long, the death notice read,
Hurried over the miles to pay his respect.
He, the hill-top scribe, his companion had been
They danced together, they hunted the wren,
For St. John’s Eve fire the fuel they raised,
With battered headgear the flames they’d fan.
The turf they cut, the turf barrowed out,
The mud turf mixed, the graip well down ,
One taught the other the cycling art,
Bringing closer the doings in the neighbouring town.
Now the handshakes of mourning around that grave,
Now they file again towards the long distanced friend,
Glad for Christmas Script in the local paper,
Glad on this sad day he’d managed to attend.
The hill-top farmer too soon he has got
All this world … last to his children gives,
But January’s gloom for them a little allayed ,
As the hill-top poet a little longer lives!