David Lewis Paget (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)
Anon has writ but many a good verse
From village, fields and fens,
But none so cruel as that he wrote
About Sir Patrick Spens.
He wandered near, he wandered far
And hid from all of us,
Some verse he would disguise by signing
In Scotland he cast off his yoke
And first began to sing,
By Tom ‘O Bedlam's starry skies
He lay there, wondering.
He told us of John Barleycorn
Slain on the threshing floor,
And while he wrote, he told his wife
Get Up and Bar the Door.
He hid within a gypsy camp
And watched them cut Green Broom,
The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies took
His wife, that afternoon.
Was he a Laird, or just a man
There's no-one left to tell,
For on the road he stumbled on
The Wife of Usher's Well.
She told him of her wail and woe
The loss of her sons three,
How they'd set sail the week before
Upon the burly sea.
And so he scribbled down, Anon,
The sorrow in each life,
Of she who would not wash nor spin
For the Wee Cooper of Fife.
I'll track him well, I'll track him down
I fear for this Anon.,
He's not been seen for many a year,
I fear he may be gone!
19 February 2013
Comments about this poem (Anon. by David Lewis Paget )
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