Gone the Celts and gone the Romans,
Gone is Venta Icenorum,
Gone the boar-helms from the Eastlands
And the weaving folk that followed
(Busy fingers, pressed by hatred,
Bringing bread and pence and plenty
To this land of marsh and willow).
Gone the Lollards, gone the merchants,
Gone the pence and gone the plenty,
Gone the...stay!
Speak true words softly
Lest the last ones lean and listen,
Lest they board a bus for Bridgenorth,
Birmingham or Bath or Burnley,
Leave the Eastlands for the Midlands,
They still wealthy, leaving filthy
Village streets and muck behind them.
Gone, thank...stay, speak true words softly.
Let them come, these noisy strange ones,
Fill our lives in summer season
With their loud and foreign laughter,
With their oilskins and bikinis,
Strapless, topless, shapeless - helpless
Belly-shaking mirth pursues them
Through the largest village trade-place
That the world has known (or wants to).
When drear clouds sag on the mast-heads
In their droves and woolly hatted,
Anoraked and often sodden,
Come they steaming to the beer shops,
Drenched and dripping, blowing noses,
Coughing “’alf a pint o’ bitter?
Ruddy weather, bloody boating,
Cuss it all, I’ve ’ad me plateful.
Never bin one fer complainin’...
Where’s me pint then?
Make it snappy;
’Ad enough of ’oveton, I ’as,
Wroxham stinks an’ so does ’orning,
So does Acle; as fer Muckfleet,
Well named, that was...,” “’ere’s yer ’alf, Sir;
Much obliged, Sir. Is
that all now?”
“Take two pops an’ crisps fer Willie
An’...”; another ten
whole shillings
Leaves the Midlands for the Eastlands.
Out he goes and still it’s raining.
“Where’s the fish an’ chip shop, copper?”
“That road there, Sir; on the right, Sir.”
“Ta: we’ll ’ave some...”; and another
Shining coin slips from his fingers.
On the sunny days it’s different;
All is gift shops, knick-knacks, ice-cream.
Yacht caps, T-shirts splashed with anchors,
Pseudo-nautical devices
Made to tempt the foreign “sailor”
(Cruiser, barger, basher, cusser)
In his limousine on water.
What the...stay;
speak true words softly.
They may like the
garish awnings,
Coca-Colas, blaring juke box,
Tinned food bought at twice the normal
(While the locals buy it elsewhere),
They may love to play the grouser
In the east lands in the season.
Let them go their ways in peace, then,
Boasting of their boating bungles,
How they braved the storm on Breydon
While the cowards sped for shelter.
How they split the tall top-gallants.
How they lashed the lug at Ludham,
How beheld the booming bittern
Perching on the prow at noon-tide
Eating Auntie Elsie’s cough drops
(“Close as us two are together!”)
Let them go in peace, but poorer,
To their homelads in the Westlands;
Let them lure next year’s invaders
To this land of marsh and willow.
Though we curse them yet we bless them.
Gone the poorer from the Eastlands,
Leaving pence and leaving plenty,
Still we speak the true words softly:
Strange folk, fare you well together.
(1964 or 65)
