I grew up on Marriott Edgar,
And the musket Sam wouldn’t pick up,
And Lady Jane’s ghost with the cold dripping toast
Not to mention the Chippendale Mupp.
Dr Seuss was a firm childhood favourite,
Spike Milligan took up the rear,
But I always returned to young Albert
And the stick stuck in Wallace’s ear.
Yet it wasn’t a frivolous pastime,
As history seeped in as well
And I learned about t’ Battle of Hastings
In a way only Edgar could tell.
It isn’t from school I remember
All the glorious tales of my land,
But from reading of Harold at Hastings
“On his ‘oss with his ‘awk in his ‘and.”
And then there was Magna Carta
The first ever human rights bill,
That was signed there on Runnymede Island
With King John who was looking quite ill.
“And it’s through that there Magna Charter,
As were signed by the Barons of old,
That in England to-day we can do what we like,
So long as we do what we’re told.”
So I learned all the words to recite them,
And for Granddad and Grandma I’d stand
And tell of old Sam and his musket,
Then they’d smile and say, “Eeh, that were grand.”
‘Cause poetry’s rhyming and rhythm
Just takes up its home in your head,
And I’ll probably still recite Albert
On the day I’m supposed to be dead.
I’ll never be Wordsworth or Shakespeare,
But I notice a similar beat
In my verses to Marriott Edgar
And somehow that’s really quite neat.
For the bards would have always shared laughter
As well as the history and stuff.
And if one of my ditties can stick in a brain
For the poet in me… that’s enough.