J.R. Bibby, Indian Command. (St. James’ Terrace, Morpeth) asks:
"Very Important Questions!”
Oh, tell me, does the curlew’s plain still sound by Wannie Crag;
Does Pigdon Wood still rustle at the stamper of a stag?
How look the vales of Font and Wansbeck – does the primrose flower:
And tolls the curfew bell to-night from Morpeth’s churchless tower?
Still do the children chalk one’s back upon a certain night
And do the Stanners echo as the carpet beaters smite?
Still do the herds on Market Day in eddies slow pass by
And can the wails of lonely trains be heard when rain is nigh?
Oh, tell me, is the high keep now where it has always been
With Morpeth sleeping ‘neath its walls in coverlets of green?
Do little boys go tiddling yet upon the stepping stones:
Do kitchens smell as pleasantly of girdle cakes and scones?
Still does the whirling water spate pummel the old bridge pier
And do the anxious ducklings scurry near the Bays Land weir?
Is the jingling music heard when there’s a hirings fair
And is the old town’s aura as mellow and as rare?
L.Boag, Mitford Road, Morpeth, replies:
Answers to Very Important Questions
Oh, yes, the curlew’s lonely plain still sounds by Wanney Crag,
And Pigdon Wood still rustles at the scamper of a stag.
The primroses in Wansbeck vales still hide their pale starlight
And a maiden rings the curfew on each succeeding night.
The children still are up to all their customary pranks
And on the Stanners carpet-beating echoes from the banks.
The lowing herds still wend their huddled, blind and trampling way
Down Newgate Street, scaring the timid soul on Market Day.
Oh, yes, the ancient keep still rears its solid, stone-girt head
While Morpeth, worn by standing queues, sleeps fitfully in bed;
And, sounding o’er the drones of planes, the noisy rumbling train
Still sends its piercing whistle out, when skies are cleared for rain.
Still do the little boys and girls the stepping stones o’erleap,
Except when rain and swirling waters make the river deep;
And, spite of rations and the flour, still girdle cakes are turned,
For singin hinnies, dripping hot, are never to be spurned.
The river spate, like cotton wool, still down the Wansbeck drifts,
While in the blue skies overhead the breaking storm-cloud lifts;
And Morpeth ducks in single file pass down the sparkling stream,
Their gliding, silent motion looking lovely as a dream.
The gulls, white-winged, in dipping, curving poetry of flight,
Still make the steel-clad aeroplane a secondary sight.
Oh, never fear the change of years, while far away you roam:
Old Morpeth keeps for all her boys a waiting welcome-home.
