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North
Stifford Village
‘THE
IDYLL IN THE MIDDYL’ - of Thurrock.
Now
Thurrock aint a beauty spot,
It’s so
built up in places now
With
houses, shops, and concrete streets,
There’s
scarcely room to graze a cow.
But
there’s this little place I knows,
That
nestles where the Mardyke flows.
Down the
end of Stifford Hill, the ancient bridge
do span the stream,
Flowing
lazily along, where swans and herons
drift and dream,
Where
marsh frogs croak and foxes play,
And
Harry’s horses pass the day.
The
kingfisher, the water vole,
The field
mouse dozes in her hole,
The
rabbits frolic in the field,
And all
sustained by nature’s yield.
And then
we journey up the hill - abundant
charms there to be seen,
Thatched
cottages, and flowers sweet,
The pub,
the shop, the village green - where
cricket’s played on summer days,
And
peaceful fields where horses graze.
St.
Mary’s Church atop the hill, has
witnessed centuries drift by,
As
generations come and go - watched over
as they live and die.
The
ancient stones could tell the tale, of
war and famine, plague, and tears,
When folk
prayed for deliverance, so many times
throughout the years.
And on
the way to Canterbury, for to seek
salvation there,
Going to
the great cathedral, hoping for their
soul’s repair,
Pilgrims
trudged down ancient byways, all along
the ‘Pilgrim’s Way,’
And rested in
this little village at the ending of the
day.
Rich men
built impressive houses, Stifford
Lodge, and Coppid Hall,
Peasants
worked with wood and thatching - toiled
to build a cottage small.
Today we
reap the legacy, for history such wealth
do give,
So let us
cherish and preserve, this little ‘gem’
in which we live.
Local Yokel
© 2009 |
