top of page

Are we down-hearted

A poem in the voice of a fed-up soldier far from home


I long for old Cheapside, the tavern, the ale,

And the merry, late-night revels,

Away from the wet and the ghostly wail

Of the wind on the Somerset levels.


Who’d be a Roundhead, chilled to the core,

With frozen, water-logged feet

Stuck in the sludge and the slime on a moor

In a world of withies and peat?


And where are the Royalists? Nobody knows,

Nobody here in the mire;

They’re probably sheltering, toasting their toes

In front of a blazing fire.


Oh give me a tavern, a tankard, a song,

A meal and a maid and a romp!

Cheapside in London is where I belong,

Not here on this desolate swamp!

Recent Posts

See All

Vernal

A Triolet about Spring The lion and the lamb compete And no one’s certain what to wear, We’ll either freeze or wilt from heat. The lion...

A Life In Limericks

A well-known person’s life story told in three Limericks Born in London, this lad was no fool, He was tutored at Oswestry School. Of...

Bookish

A political manifesto inspired by literary heroes. It is time for a change. Britain has tired of dull politicians who get nothing done....

Comments


bottom of page