The Blacksmith's Goose.
The blacksmith of Findon he had him a goose.
You may think to blacksmiths a goose is no use,
And on that same question I'll leave you to ponder,
But of this strange fowl Bill could not have been fonder.
The goose, well in fact it was really a gander,
Would goose-step each day to the pond, to philander,
With all of the fine lady geese of the town,
And never a one as I know turned him down.
And while he was off in pursuit of romance,
The dogs of the neighbourhood all took their chance,
And scurried, tails wagging,at speed to the forge,
In order on clippings of hoof for to gorge.
But when our old goose saw these dogs in his place,
The gander'd abandon his loving to chase
Flat-footed, wings flapping, pell-mell to the smith,
And rout all the canine intruders forthwith.
Each Sunday in church Billy sat at the back,
And often, in sermons protracted, a quack
Was issued by Bill's constant fine feathered friend,
Reminding the vicar his ramblings to end.
Each evening Bill went to the pub for a jug
Of ale, and the landlord would fetch out a mug
Brim filled with fresh milk for the gander to quench
His thirst, while Bill laughed with his mates on the bench.
Old Bill he grew sick and he took to his bed,
And constantly keeping a vigil, it's said,
The goose never once ventured off from his side,
Until that dark daywhen old blacksmith Bill died.
And if through the old village records you search,
You'll find that he followed the coffin to church;
And hence to the graveyard, whereat he did stay,
Until, not long after, the goose pined away.
If you don't believe a word of it, look here:
http://www.findonvillage.com/0063_old_billy_brown_and_the_pet_goose.htm
Saturday, April 27, 2002