Anon.A Poem by David Lewis PagetAnon
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 ‘By
Anonymous.’ 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! David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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