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Kenneth H. Ashley
1887-19??

RUDKIN

RUDKIN was one who cattle sold,

Laughed loud, talked bold;

Children got, drank at inns,

Nor thought much of his sins.

Stout his legs, broad his back;

To live and thrive he had the knack.

All who went out, all who came in,

By Threckington, knew stout Rudkin.

Long he's been dead; his name has gone

Clean out of mind at Threckington;

If one should ask for Rudkin there

The village folk would stare and stare.

Rudkin is dead; dead as Queen Anne:

Hangs on my wall his warming-pan;

In hall hard by, solemn and clear,

Ticks the tall clock he used to hear;

Little Miss Wright, all unaware,

Reads her paper in his chair.

Down by the bridge the parapet

Is still chipped where his wain upset;

By the old barn there's an old pear

When he was wed he planted there.

His drover's dog was very like

Our butcher's cur: a mongrel tyke;

He had a bull with a crooked horn,

A heifer like it I saw this morn.

Down at "The George" in market-place

There's a bold wench wears his bold face.

© 2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman