Poetry

Fox Three hunts they went a-hunting A Fox to catch that day But never a Fox like our Fox Did ever come their way.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. From Badger's Wood to Dimply Green Like lightning gone away A merry chase. A hell of a pace Our Foxy led the way.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. The hounds they stormed the man nests And Fox he laughed all day Through house and field and stream and weald         He made the hound-dogs bay.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho, The Fox he went away. 'Twas in the villain's garden That Fox met death that day He fought with might and fury And made the bad man pay.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. They sing his praise with muted breath For miles around, they say, A brave Fox, a valiant Fox And shout hooray, hooray.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         They shout hooray, hooray. Taken from The Battle for Badger's Wood by Frederick Covins © 1974, 1983, 1984

The Swallows don’t come here anymore Harbingers of Summer they came, Six thousand miles they flew Over desert, sea, mountain and plain. Four ounces, swift and aerobatic in the sun, Beauty unrestrained. In Egypt they cross the Sarah desert, Five hundred miles of blistering heat, Cold nights and daylight’s burning sun. Many fall exhausted, dying into the soft sand. At the African and French coasts They are relentlessly netted to provide pate For the greedy gourmets of either land. With late and early winters many succumb To the high altitudes and snow covered peaks Of the Alps and the Pyrenees. Returning home to Africa, another six thousand miles, They face their greatest nemesis, The reed bed spraying aeroplanes, Issuing white clouds of death to the Tetse Fly. Great flocks of Swallows fly into these clouds And spiral earthwards in an agony of death and The earth lies crucified by a thousand feathered nails. Our Swallows don’t come here anymore.

Footnote:

Ever year as soon as our Swallows arrived they flew directly into the house and flew around the room piping their arrival calls and then flew out to find their nesting site. We were always overjoyed to greet them. Two years ago they actually nested in the roof of our porch! At first we worried about how they would get in and out if we shut the front door at night? They demonstrated a very brilliant solution when we tried partially closing the door, they simply flew down and out through the letter box, which fortunately had no flap, and then promptly zoomed back in, smirking I swear! After that we had a beautiful relationship whereby they sat upon the upper edge of the open inner door and watched and chattered as we went about our routines. My Swallow speak is a little rusty, but I did try to communicate our delight and I honestly think they at least understood the tone. They had two chicks who they introduced and taught their flying and insect catching skills. Again the time came to leave and once again they came in and cried their goodbyes. It was always a sad time, but never as sad as that last, because they never came back.

Hitherto Unpublished Verses from the First World War
		Some people write for riches Some people write for fame But I cannot do either So I humbly write my name Pte. M. Kershaw. Ist Battalion. Border Regiment. Tommy had a little wound His bandage looked so nice That everywhere he went in Malvern They let him in half-price. Pte. R. Mitchell 4th Battalion. Royal Berks. 30.11.16 When I listed - a braw Scotch laddie - They gie'd me a tartan kilt, Wi hues like a Paisley pladie Displayed on a patchwork quilt. But noo, doon the lines I warkie Like a grizzly bear arrayed, For ah'm Jock o' the clan McKhaki In the hobble-skirt brigade. They've khakied ma braw Scotch bonnet, They've khakied ma pipe-clayed spats, Ah've a khaki belt an' beyon' it A sporran of khaki mats. Ah'v a coat wi khaki cord on, But O! whaur ma kiltie joins Can I look like a gay gay Gordon Wi a sackcloth round ma loins? Should you hear on the field o' battle, Abune o' the crash o' shells, Abune o' the cannon's rattle An' the hearty English yells, Abune the machine-gun's barkie A cheer that your ear drums crack, It's Jock o' the clan McKhaki Who's gotten his kiltie back. 10627 Corporal J. Burns, 2nd Battalion, The Gordon Highlanders. (Wounded at Ypres on 29th October 1914) Oh! to wake on some fair morning with the knowledge, 'Nevermore shall the bloody tide of battle break on European shore!' And to know the fuller freedom, long the nation's great desire, Doth enfold earth with a glory born of Brotherhood's fire. From the hearts of mighty cities, to the island of the sea, In a lustre like the sunshine, earth is drenched in liberty. Whilst the joyous years roll onwards 'till the Golden Age is won. And the dream is dreamt no longer for the greatest deed is done. Pte. R.. Il. I. Hill. April '17 Ye nymphs, oppress'd by Wor'ster's stagnant air, To Malvern's high aerial walks repair, Where springs, and gales, their mutual aid dispense, To purge the blood, and quicken every sense; Here the pale face its former tints resumes, And every charm with fresher beauty blooms; Haste, then, ye nymphs, and range awhile at large, So shall ye save for paint an annual charge. Unknown. All taken from Malvern Between the Wars by Frederick Covins c.1981

Dungeon Deep Long, groping, black fingers of Obscene shadow Crept Cloven hooved Along the darkening walls. In the dripping forest Subdued, But awakening Furies softly cackled. Nymphs and Naiads hid in shame. Wet leaves rustled As Imps, Sucuba, Familiars, Trolls and Harpies Rushed To heed their Master’s call. Depravity and corruption Stalked The silent chambers and Those not yet asleep Covered their heads And lay Atremble. Formless shapes Slide From cracks and through cracks, Seeking The source Of this night’s Abomination. Deep In a thick-walled chamber, Infamy Danced hand in hand With profanity. A thousand Putrid, Vile ectoplasms Gibbered silently As Lord Ahriman Entered The welcoming soul Of the host, Naked Before the rack. Not before the first Dull Leavening of light Watered The darkness Did the obscene forms Flee To their myriad hiding places. A ‘found’ poem taken from Frederick Covins’s latest novel Satan's Fuehrer