On the heaths

I was taken back to Dorset

when the vans were on the heath

where the heather grew so willd and free

it sure was home to me

I remember all the brickyards

where Sankey dug the clay

where Granfer feed the pgs and hens

where as i child i played

I roamed the Purbeck hillsides

from creech to swanage sands

i gathered in the hay

i listened to the bands

The winding rivers frome and stour

the pleasant wareham walls

Where the orchards were in bloom

where as boys we chased the girls

i recall the favourite haunts

where Gulliver did roam

where lawrence lived upon clouds hill

where hardy he called home

I walked the winding pathways

glimpsed the thatch and more

i ambled over corfes great scene

strode up gold hills tours

The memories they will last me

the scenes so scenic rare

the harbour set in Poole's great haunts

where once there were a fair

The gypsies with their baskets

outside woolies shops

the heather and the paper crisp

the long walks to the shops

I strolled upon the kinson track

where gypsies once did roam

where whites and sherwoods

grazed their horse and ponies on the moor

The memories they came flooding back

like blytons secret tales

the gorse and furze amongst the greens

their scents and aroma smells

the little park where train did run

where kids did have such fun

where zunners packed their haversacks

then to the seas did chase

where cockles bathed in mud and more

time spent in lulworths caves.

The old pick and shovel accordion days

Victor clapcott was a true accordion man

i heard him playing at the pick n shovel in old Poole town

was when my aunt Winnie freemantle wore her rogers wedding gown

you could buy a round then for less than half a crown

He could play that music like no one id heard since or before

we played postman's knock outside that old pub door

there was a cemetery just across the way

the pubs well gone now its a Chinese restaurant now a days

The streets were narrow and the quay was grandwe strolled on ladies walking field where bus station now stands

they sold it off and the canford bourne heath too

gave us baiter point and the arundales view.

Caroline Hughes

Do you remember the Dorset Gypsy poet Queen

with her words of love she set the scene

the caravans gathered on the old wareham bye pass

with their homes of freedom and their wheels on grass

The view of canford hills of lodge

the windy tracks on the land of God

she wrote the anthems and the folk trail ends

where the dartford warbler thrilled around each bend

They came to visit her the young and wise

with the dust of love within their eyes

she played and sung the words of rhyme

memories of another age another time

The Seegers came to bend their ears

the sixties vogue in the protest years

the traditions stretched and the words were wise

they crafted melodies and turned the tide

The Dorset Gypsy queen of poetry

sat and talked amongst birch white trees

the guitars strummed and their voices thrilled

amongst the campfires lit and the rolling wheels

The Manning's heath just a stone throw away

where as a child i ran and played t

he music lived within their hearts

the gypsy song and the horse and carts

Then the master artistes performed her songs

the gypsy queen with lilt so strong

the heathers bend and the lizards squirmed

amongst the adders and fast slow worms

Gone are the travelers who played that day

amongst the gorse on the great highway.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

Every picture tells a story

just a country boy

with a present on his birthday

hey there ship ahoy

a dog to keep him company

a heath to run and play

it was his eighth birthday

The sun was shining brightly

spring was in the air

the birds were singing in the trees

he didn't have a care

Just a boy upon the heathland

afore the roads were planned

no houses on the forecourt

no troubles in his hands

The heath it stretched afore him

with rabbits by the score

four and twenty blackbirds

singing to st Paul

Just two plus twenty cowsheds

pig sty's by the score

hundreds of chickens

a brickyard chimney tall

Orchards with blossoms

allotments and ganders running free

just a country farming boy

in the page of history

No television pictures

no on line or PC

just accumulator radio

a walk upon the lea

A canford magna storybook

a spring running free

fresh water for a shower

blackberry's for tea

Dogs chasing rabbits

foxes on the hunt

quiet life upon the heath

teas ready says the farmers wife

The brickyard stood across the way

clay pits on the hill

gravel pits down the valley

can smell the heather still

Gypsy's in their caravans

painted so artistic and divine

dancing gals with castanets

trailing dress behind

dark tanned gypsy ladies

hardened gypsy men

ponies running wild and free

had some time for me

The artist called Augustus

painted our house heather view

also painted Mary gear

she was in the buff too

There were poppies in the meadows

heathers on the downs

the land was all one common then

belonged to the crown

Our house was called the Manning's

our farm was acres two

we kept a lot of poultry

doves and pigeons too

All of this is gone now

theres houses by the score

but no one knows their neighbor

guess the children are so poor

Just a multi storey complex

picture houses fine

McDonald's and bars a plenty

to drink a glass of wine

No sign of the country

where rabbits all ran free

just that faded picture

of the boy that once was me.

GYPSIES

I traveled those fairgrounds and all those great shows

to find me some Gypsies that i ne'er did know

i searched for those kings with dark skin and more

with words that twer couse and hides saddle sore

I met with some tinkers and hawkers by trade

i met up with a teller of fortune and slaves

i mixed with the bests the Shaw's and the pride

of England's travelings circus with dark roving eyes

I glimpsed their fair world of satin and lace

with drapes that did flow n smiles pon their face

their ponies were wild and the dogs they did bark

they lit up their candles and lamps in the dark

Their tales they were long and they gave me a thrill

their stories were old and they spun that great wheel

their vardos were tall ans their stew it was rich

they traveled this land through heathers and ditch

I was born with the look of a traveling man

they called me a Gypsy wherever i am

my folks they were destined to warrant a wish

as they stumbled through life with the sign of the fish

The wheels they did roll and the pen it was wet

with fables and songs that flowed from their nets

their hair it was dark and their skin it was tan

their eyes looked you over and into the man

I never found kings or queens of my clan

i guess il remain just a traveling man.

Ode to the Gypsy poets

Ode to the gypsy poets

with their transcipt words of rhyme

to the heather and the corn field

the barley and the vine

Ode to the makeshift homes there

where the sun came up each day

where the rabbits and the foxgloves

greets each new spring borne day

Ode to the routes they travelled

with their wayward caravans

with the light of god to guide them

with fate to take their hand

Ode to the land that breathed there

the willows and the oak

the songs they sang at daybreak

the natures brand new coats

Ode to the Gypsy language

the lore and dreams they told

the fortune telling ladies

the lamp stands made of gold

Ode to the labor's offered

the fairgrounds and the dust

the many heartaches suffered

the romance and the lust

Ode to their weary burdens

their skills that were renowned

the sands of time will comfort them

in God we know they trust

Ode to their intuitions

their wisdom and their joys

the children full of laughter

the dreams of girl and boy.

Bender days

We all shared our benders there amongst the heathers deep

with granfer George and Mary sweet with jackals at our feet

there we shared our rabbit's stew and ate fagots in a pie

they smoked the herbs amongst the downs where country folk passed by

The greens were rich upon the moors where the foxes built their dens

where horses lay and cockerel's crowed and rich folk hurried bye

the streams were rich with fishes then and springs upon the downs

where twas warblers sung afore the dawn and Mary gear passed by

The days were hard and folks did cry of cold and lack of grub

where briar's stretched across the heaths of ladies of the crown

though winds were harsh and nights were cold we shared our love and more

we sung our songs and shared our dreams each day upon the moors

The Gypsy folks and traveler's no more do roam this land

where man has sold the heaths for gain and built a promised land

of bricks and sand and glass with frames where idle men doth walk

where monies gained and fools are framed with fun and idle talk

Long gone are the days of wagons wheels var dos and benders frames

where rabbits ran and Gypsy son was singing in the rain

the tracks have gone and heathers grand across that fertile land

where dreams awoke and child first spoke at new dawn on the morn.

PART THREE

 Olde route to the purbecks

We took the old route to the Purbecks my gypsy friends and I

there were goodies in the vardos and new age caravans stacked up so high

we took the Wareham old road again through olde England's olde turbarys domain

we traveled o'er egdon heath through wool and down through Warehams lanes

There were sights to see each morning scenes of Corfes great hills

twists and turns of purbeck stone winding rivers mill

pictures of old thatched cottages Creech great grange n more

kimmeridge bay in the mornings light and fish upon the shore

The road it gave great pleasure as we looked o'er swanage bay

with fairgrounds on the hillsides kids and lambs at play

the wheels they did keep turning and the songs we sung were old

like the romani gypsy language that once our fathers told

There were tanks upon the crossroads where Lawrence once made home

where hardy walked and wrote his tales and Barnes he once called home

the birds they chirped at daybreak and the deer in warehams woods

the Sanford lanes were full of Rhodes and the chaffinch chirped so good

The band were full of stories the old uns told a rhyme

of the golden age of gypsy when traveling was in its prime

the trees were full of blossom there were berries on each bush

it was a lovely journey we all said it was kush-ti

the worgret track was bumpy as we crossed the bridge again

there were farmers making furrows and chickens in their pens

The rabbits ran through meadows and the blackbird sang its song

memories of purbecks seemed to go on and on

the gaffers all remember when we cut turves's upon the heath

where old meg had her cottage there and I once cut my teeth

the lanes have all been covered with tarmac and mans gain

but the gypsy roads are remembered as we go to wool again.

Forest Days

Life was hard in the forests

where few strangers passed bye

where the rabbits ran free

where the old uns did sigh

Where the fires that were lit

lead to smoke in your eyes

where the old mum smoked pipe

and the rivers ran bye

The ferns they did grow there

so tall and so wild

where the foxes gave chase

and the old uns were wise

where the trees shed their branches

in autumns rich lanes

where the ponies were tethered

where it snowed and it rained

The chestnuts gave sustenance

whilst the blackberry's grew

all over the waysides

for me and for you

Where the dew it was rich on the ground in the morn

where the chaffinch did sing and the babies were born

all through those days when the vardos did roll

neath the blue skies which we all called home

There were songs and tales told

for many a day in the heart of the forest

where the young uns did play

the gals told your fortune in the palm of your hand

the old men did wander and the young men did gain

rabbits and work there with their bridles and reins

The life it was hard yet their spirits were rich

close by the heathers next to the ditch

where the traps they were many for the ponies to bear

whilst the wind it did blow and mess up your hair.

 Gypsy chatter

I rode those Gypsy caravans

where the trails were wild and the journey's long

i watched the swirling reels of rhymes

the wheels that spun and the poets vines

I stumbled through their tales of woe

their sodden rides where willows grow

where eyes of destiny saw through trees

brambles that caught ones hands and knees

I listened to the folki lore

those tales of old like days before

where sparrows flew upon the downs

where gypsy folk were bedded down

I saw those fairground roulette's spin

those darts that flew o'er every whim

i heard their chatter each new line

their jests and spin like hands of time

I walked those tracks o'er meadows sweet

where berries grew above my feet

where rabbits ran and foxes chased

where plough was rich and life's no haste

I heard their laughter and saw their pain

their tears of joy like once again

where cock did crow and cows did graze

where pony's ran and boy did laze

The Gypsy reels and folki lore told tales of life

no eyes deplored and yet it richness was divine

afore the bricks and mortars zine.

Cinderella rose lee

Cinderella the Gypsy lived upon the great south shore

where the Blackpool golden mile stretched and was well worth waiting for

they called her Rose lee for she was a seer and true

she told you lots of fortune tales on the beach at old Blackpool

Her booth it was well lit up with pictures by the score

close by the donkeys serenades upon the Blackpool shore

She wore a scarf of gaiety and her lamp it was well lit

her cards spread on the table just across from wheres you sit

her eyes they looked right into you and real your mind and soul

she was dark and beautiful and her rings she did fare show

Her dress was long and dignified like a lady of good taste

her skin was dark and mystical and her beauty in her face

Of all the Gypsy ladies her words were true to form

she told you how it was from the day that she was born

Her booth no longer sits there on Blackpool's golden mile

where lads and lassies came to call to see her golden smile.

TRAVELLING DAYS

There were Gypsies on the sand dunes before Blackpool golden mile was born

there were Gypsies on the lodge hills near Poole when farms were planting corn

there were gypsies in their caravans and in their tents so mean

with lights a burning bright each night all full of kerosene

There were ponies on the hillsides then and donkeys on the sands

there were fairground cars to ride and more with big top traveling bands

those fortune telling ladies on the pier did often stand

with their cards of tarot destiny and with silver in their hands

All the belly dancing ladies and the singing baritones

with the dancing of the festivals and the wagons rolling home

there was work out in the fields then with the fruit picking every day

with the singing of the gypsy gals and guys each working holiday

Each year the traveling circus came to call with big top and the clowns

with horses bred and braided well and there was hay upon the downs

the crowds were all a thronging and the lights were shining bright

these were tales to tell your children when the gypsies were in sight

There were belly dancing ladies with earrings and bright gowns

with their castanets and tambourines jingly and the accordion's gay sounds

there were gatherings on the hillsides then and merriment when the traveler's came to call

with their Roma ways and dialect like gents and ladies at a ball.

ATCHIN TAN

They built them there a atchins tan

with concrete base and barbed wire surround

no more were they a free race lore

with open Sky's and heather floor

now they partook the gorja ways

so its kushti bok and taxing days

no more the traditions of the gypsy clan

for now they twer part of the master plan

The 1994 act was introduced

to rob them of their rights and truce

each one imprisoned like a criminal for their nomadic ways

like a fortress camp in a Freeman's grave

The traditional skills were just old hat

their weaving baskets and ladies hats

no more the land to plant n sow

with ponies braided for to show

still the dreams live on in Romany

like the life of the poor old didikie

where wagons rolled and stories told

in the past down gypsy roads.

Secret Britain

There's a secret Britain that only gypsies see

where the grass is green and mellow with blossoms on the trees

here adders squirm in heather sweet where lizards rush n hide

where the chaffinch sings at daybreak and where warblers sing their pride

There's a secret beauty Britain a castle walk to share

where cove meets door of durdle when the sun shines il be there

There's a rolling hill afore me with a castle on the hill

a cuckoo calls to greet you nearby the warehams rivers mill

There's a golden haunt morning when the suns up in the sky

there's a wagon rolling freely with freedom for you and i.

GYPSIES IN CLOVER

Miles away from nowhere

at the back of way beyond

i met a band of gypsy folk

travelling was their bond

Down in the hollows valley

where commons stretched the land

twas up near high top common

where gypsies lived so grand

Down near cuckoo bottom

not from from monkeys hump

across the hill from knotty

old man Trent's big dump

You could see it on the Manning's

where the chimney tall did stand

across from granters farm house

with pullets oh so grand

the cockerels crowed each morning

where Arnold's tied their horses

where Betty made daisy chains

where the brickyard was so red and high

where the gaffer wore watch chain

Not far from shoulder mutton

where john did sketch n paint

nude models in his studio

for just a penny rent

Across from alderney hospital

along the ringwood road

where whites stored his pipes

where little Truth remains

Old sankey had the clay pits

where Rogers worked each day

sweating in the ovens

covered in brown clay

The Gypsies roamed the heathers

where lady guest was rarely seen

twas all a Sweet memory

when Victoria was queen.

Caravans

They ride the rustic world of caravans

their dreams and visions in their hands

their only refuge is their plans

somewhere remote within this world of sin

they travel free remembering

When men were free and words were Truth

rabbits ran free upon the heaths

the fox was king and heather grew

upon the heaths of Waterloo

Onward to justice they strive to seek

a place called home just out of reach

their tinker talk their roaming eyes

their search for Truth and enterprise

Their music rich their dance so free

upon those hills of liberty

Their covered wagons of antiquity

their words of diddyke and roman slang

their golden chests

their dreams of man

across the continent they did roam

with heather-ed sprigs and fortunes home

There beneath the starlit skies

they smoked their pipes and planned their guise

where birds nest soup and bark of tree

hid all their dreams in sanctuary

they set their course

for liberty.

Fairgrounds rover

Its a hard road to travel with folks to meet on the way

its a horse in the stirrup and a look caste away

there moonlight a shining and there's stars all aglow

with the rumbling wheels of their wagons on the Romany roads

So I'm off on the highway by the heather and dales

where the sun it comes up and the music is swell

there's dogs here a barking and boys at the fair

with gals to surprise you with flowers in their hair

Oh the fairground wheels a spinning and the darts are in flight

with the roulette wheels churning by day and by night

the booths are all open and the rides are all free

on the first day at Blackpool down by the sea

The tellers of fortune have drawn all the pack

with their eyes on the client and the son in the sack

the night draws the seekers of wisdom and sights

with the songs of the crooners and the lights oh so bright

The music is awesome and the melodies spin

like the dreamers of old when the harvest begins

the accordion plays a sweet melody like the Parisian nights

with their words lost at sea

The gypsy rides in with his lingo and tan

like a thief in the night with his whispering band

the highways and bye ways have cursed the lament

whilst history has lost all its sacredness spent

The roads they had traveled and the sights they had seen

like a lost generation without their may queen

for its take to the hills and get off the land

only their footprints have left now of this regal band.

Jumping the broomstick

Rosie jumped the broomstick upon a frosty morn

whilst birds were singing in the trees and wishes all twer born

a frog he croaked his story and the springs did run on bye

there twer squirrels a rushing up the trees and a lonesome tramp passed by

There twer days of merriment and gay long afor the days of war

when soldiers fought for what was right upon old Flanders shores

they fought for king and country then with rifles tall n mean n bored

there were sparrows in the hedge grow then and the pots were full of beans

The vardos were so splendid with steps up to the doors

twas a splendid scene with ornate lamps and tapestry like you'd never seen afore

the dogs were barking down the lanes where heathers stretched to Poole

where local men and gentle folk all said howd ya do

The mushers went to market then and the gaffer took you in

with jobs for the lonesome vagabonds and pennies to buy your gin

the markets were full of hectic pace and all loud hawkers cries

there twer rows of clothes and stalls of cows and things to catch your eye

the church bells chimed and the groom did sigh as he kissed her on the green

where wild roses grew upon the trees and the past was left behind.

Gypsy Friend

Once i had a Gypsy friend

who told me fortune and he'd pretend

he traveled o'er the beaten tracks

where willows hung and flowers sack

blessed the downs and bridle paths

where rabbits ran and thunder cracked

where birdsong greeted the morning dew

upon the heaths where cows did moo

my friends were many who roamed the land

and sang of days when life was grand

where farmers sowed the corn and stacked the hay

throughout the years in golden days

when life was rich upon the soil

where Gypsies stretched their minds and souls

where firs did swell the woodlands spruce

where deer did run and geese where loose

my friend the Gypsy soul was free

and loved the life with Rosy lee

where grass was green and hills were roamed

within the pride of Dorset's home

where vardos rolled and wheels did gain

the land was rich with wind and rain

the ravens soared o'er pastures churned

where tractors routes were rich in thorns

where sultry ladies offed wares

and children pranced on footsteps bared

the master poet wrote the lines

whilst artists painted the hills divine

whilst song Truth sung to bless the day

and as a boy i made my play.

.