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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365677" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Bones!</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I well remember Sir Gordon Fitch<br>As much for his wealth as his plain language, <br>A spade was a 'bloody shovel' to him, <br>In truth, he was an arrogant man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Seventh Earl in a Stately Home, <br>But ruined then, half falling down<br>Though what remained was a grand old pile<br>It sat in the woods by Barkly Stile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three living rooms and a massive hall, <br>And fifteen rooms if I do recall, <br>The house had seventeen chimneys there<br>Soot-caked and brooding, beyond repair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Three of the fires were boarded in, <br>The rooms so cold with the house snowed in, <br>We shivered and sat with our coats still on, <br>Scarves and gloves in the morning room.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When questioned, Gordon would shrug and say, <br>'Don't know, old man, it was just that way! <br>My Gramps did anything he saw fit, <br>A hundred years since that fire was lit.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'My father told me to leave it there<br>The chimney smoked, and it choked the air, <br>There was no heat from the fire when lit -<br>You'll just have to make the best of it! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My bedroom, too, like an old ice chest, <br>I couldn't sleep, I could get no rest, <br>I made my way to the library<br>Where a fire burned, and the books were free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old manuscripts ran along one wall, <br>Family papers, brittle and old, <br>Some volumes of ancient erotica<br>Under the name 'Biologica'.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Early prints of Victorian Dames<br>With not a stitch, and of course, no names, <br>I spent too long in there, I'll avow, <br>Comparing the women of then, with now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I soon got restless and turned to walls<br>Of papers dealing with Barkly Hall, <br>Dry old screeds of entail and law<br>Way back to the old Crimean War.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One such cutting that caught my eye<br>Had told of the village of Barkly Stile, <br>A lad, just seven, had slipped away, <br>The villagers searched for him, night and day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They searched the woods, they scoured the wold, <br>The ancient bell in the steeple tolled, <br>They set the hounds in the fields round there<br>But nothing was seen of Benjamin Clare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Benjamin Clare had been and gone<br>Like a rainbow after a summer storm, <br>His mother did nothing at all but weep, <br>His father, he was the chimney sweep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They left the village of Barkly Stile, <br>Came up in the world, so ran the tale, <br>They bought a house that was grand, complete, <br>A little bit rich for a chimney sweep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I mulled on it, went back to my room, <br>Shivered and shook in the marble tomb, <br>Took the poker and found release<br>By prising the boards from the mantelpiece. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They fell away, piled up on the floor, <br>I walked to the passage and locked the door<br>Then peered on up through the chimney space<br>But all was dark in that soot-caked place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I found in a cupboard a curtain rod<br>Which I poked up there, and began to prod, <br>When down with a rattle and caked with soot<br>There clattered the bones of a tiny foot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then some movement began up there<br>As weight was shifted, a tuft of hair, <br>Some ragged pants and a dirty shirt<br>And bones crashed down in the dust and dirt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The skull fell out on the parquetry, <br>And lay there, looking on up at me, <br>My breath came out like a mist in there, <br>I'd solved the puzzle of Benjamin Clare! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">He seemed to be grinning all over his face<br>Finally free from that dreadful place, <br>He'd long been stuck in that foetid air<br>Since the day that his father sent him there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They'd paid him off, that I could see, <br>A house for his silence - Infamy! <br>Lord Gordon wasn't amused at all, <br>'The peasants will love it in Barkly Stile! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Why did you have to interfere? <br>You should have just left the blighter there, <br>He couldn't get out when it mattered most<br>And you can't light a fire, under a ghost! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two more bodies were found, at least<br>In the downstairs fireplace chimney-piece, <br>Another was buried just under the stair, <br>Suffocated, like Benjamin Clare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm never invited to Stately Homes<br>Since the word passed round that I'd found old bones, <br>Their secrets are safe in the family plots<br>If I'm kept from their soot-caked chimneypots.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">16 January 2009</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=365677" data-title="Bones! de David Lewis Paget" data-description="I well remember Sir Gordon Fitch
As much for his wealth as his plain language, 
A spade was a 'bloody shovel' to him, 
In truth, he was an arrogant man.

The Seventh Earl in a Stately Home, 
But ruined then, half falling down
Though what remained ..."></div>
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