Classic Poem

I can remember the day,
(I've got the look on it still)—
I can remember when Swanage lay
Like a grey cat under the hill.

Curled in close by the shore,
There couldn't have been, all told,
(If you went to count) not above fourscore
Of houses; and all of 'em old:

All stone, all native rock,
And the roofs grey tile or thatch;
And never a door where you had to knock,—
You'd only to lift the latch.

New Town, it be all brick-red,
And slippy wi' roofs of slate;
And Swanage do look to be off her head,
'Er's been getting so grand o' late!

But I tell 'e them roofs won't last,—
Nor never was meant to do.
Th' old roofs was here when the Spaniards passed
In fifteen hundred and two!

But now—let 'em build their best—
'Tis only built for the lease,
And when that falls in it falls; and the rest
O' their doings be all of a piece.

It be only for show, not wear.
Strange, that with none to see
But only ourselves, we took more care
To have things as they'd ought to be.

'Twas quiet in these parts then,
The months they left us alone;
And ne'er un about but Purbeck men
Farming or working the stone.

Round under Tilly Whim rocks,
Or out with nets in the bay,
Ye could hear at the quarries as clear as clocks,
The stroke of their picks all day.

In summer we did have some
Of the quality here for a spell,
And county families used to come
And stay at the “Vic” Hotel.

But they never troubled with we,
And we never troubled with 'en:
They'd go and they'd have their dip in the sea.
And be off on their own agen.

When winter blew over the down
There was never a stranger showed;
But once a week from Wareham town
Come the coach by the old Corfe road.

Us all knew all on us then;
And you never saw on the street
A body go by, one day out of ten,
As you hadn't been used to meet.

Ah, these were quietish parts,
And quietish folk were we,
When the only carts were the quarrymen's carts
Rumbling down to the quay.

We helped to build London town!
And don't it some'ow seem sad
That London folk should 'a' brought us down,
And broke up the homes we had?

For we've changed, there isn't a doubt,
Though still we quarry the stone;
But the trippers come in and the trippers go out,
And 'tisn't the place we've known.

There's only one thing that sticks,—
The rookery up at the Grange.
They knows their own minds, they don't never mix:
The rooks haven't made no change.

And here, inside o' my head,
All looks as it used to do:
But come the day I'm counted for dead,
Old Swanage 'll be dead too.

For I can remember the day,
(I've got the look on it still)—
I can remember when Swanage lay
Like a grey cat under the hill.