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Tintagel Christmas 2002

Tintagel Christmas 2002

Poems for  2002


Poems on Arthur.

Idyls of a King: Tennyson. 

The Coming of Arthur posted by Julie wheeler 

ODE TO THE KINGDOM : written by  Reg Paine.

The Watcher Written by Sandra Pritchard 

Unfinished Written by John white

Poems on a party theme

Good Health  Submitted by Gwynneth in Kempsey, Akubra Country

The Pudding - owners anthem submitted by Gina Francis

puddin owners invitation submitted by Gina Francis Sunday, December 15, 2002

Hand of friendship   submitted by gina francis, Monday, December 16, 2002

our special list written by John coles 

old & new friends written by george pritchard

Poems on memories

An old ladies poem  submitted by Warren Job Sun, 8 Dec 2002

Dear Ancestor  : submitted by "Wendy Stacey" Wed, 18 Dec 2002

the church of sT gwinear written by david oates, submitted, Wed, 18 Dec 2002

Moorland ghosts submitted by George Pritchard

Gulval churchyard submitted by Jim Thompson Wed, 3 Apr 2002 

For the fallen: submitted by "Dean Martin Rees NEWMAN"  Mon, 29 Apr 2002

East Wheal Rose disaster: submitted by George Pritchard Sat, 19 Jan 2002

Poems on a Cornish theme

Cornubia written by Anna Coles January 8th 2003

on a cornish recipe book submitted by George Pritchard Sun, 16 Jun 2002

The Well of St keyne  submitted by Deryck Hannaford on Sunday, February 24, 2002

Cornish Carols at troon: written by david oates postedWed, 11 Dec 2002

Christmas eve in Camborne: written by George Pritchard Posted Mon, 9 Dec 2002

poems on a Celtic theme

Celtic Benediction: ANON


in memory of John Miller  submitted by veronica palmer Friday 2 Aug 2002

Ancestors Submitted by Warren Job. Sun, 14 Apr 2002

if I knew:   posted by Warren job on Sun, 25 Aug 2002 (with New York  in mind

The lights of cobb & co. : submitted by Corinne Thompson Sun, 15 Dec 2002

Chocolate  Christmas  :submitted by Violet Sunderland Sun, 15 Dec 2002

This is the Cornish version, followed by the English!


cornubia.jpg (33478 bytes)

more about the painting

Gweskys gans an keynvor
An Gwyns heb kost ha goeth
Yma bro a'y karrek ha fow
Kervys yw re'n mor.

Gwydhennow boemm y'n keow meyn
Eglos y'n awel hwyth
Goelannow frappys gans gwyns
Draylyer a wandrek hwath.

Hyns mar hir avel bys a-dro
Ow neuvya a'n karrek dhe'n halow
Kastell ughel a'n als serth ha pilennek
Sesys a Gernow war-tu an arvor.


Battered by the Ocean
With the winds wild and free
There is a land of rock and cave
Carved by the sea.

Blown trees in hedges of stone
Church in the blast of the gale.
Gulls blown awry by the breath of the wind
Travelling its endless trail.

Trail as long as the world is round,
Flowing from rock to moor.
Castle of sheer and ragged cliffs,
Hanging on to Cornwall's shore.

Anna C. in Cornwall.


Twas the night before Christmas and all round my hips 

Were Fannie May candies that sneaked past my lips. 

Fudge brownies were stored in the freezer with care, 

In hopes that my thighs would forget they were there. 

While Mama in her girdle and I in chin straps 

Had just settled down to sugar-borne naps. 

When out in the pantry there arose such a clatter, 

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 

Away to the kitchen I flew like a flash,

 Tore open the icebox then threw up the sash. 

The marshmallow look of the new-fallen snow 

Sent thoughts of a binge to my body below. 

When what to my wandering eyes should appear: 

A marzipan Santa with eight chocolate reindeer! 

That huge chunk of candy so luscious and slick 

I knew in a second that I'd wind up sick. 

The sweet-coated Santa, those sugared reindeer, 

I closed my eyes tightly but still I could hear; 

On Pritikin, on Stillman, on weak one, on TOPS 

A Weight Watcher dropout from sugar detox. 

From the top of the scales to the top of the hall 

Now dash away pounds; now dash away all. 

Dressed up in Lane Bryant from my head to nightdress 

My clothes were all bulging from too much excess. 

My droll little mouth and my round little belly 

They shook when I laughed like a bowl full of jelly.

 I spoke not a word but went straight to my work 

Ate all of the candy then turned with a jerk. 

And laying a finger beside my heartburn 

Gave a quick nod toward the bedroom I turned. 

I eased into bed, to the heavens I cry 

If temptation's removed I'll get thin by and by. 

And I mumbled again as I turned for the night 

"In the morning I'll starve... 'til I take that first bite!"

 "The Lights of Cobb & Co"

 Fire lighted; on the table a meal for sleepy men; 

A lantern in the stable; a jingle now and then; 

The mail-coach looming darkly by light of moon and star;

 The growl of sleepy voices; a candle in the bar; 

A stumble in the passage of folk with wits abroad; 

A swear-word from a bedroom ­ the shout of "All aboard!" 

"Tchk-tchk! Git-up!" "Hold fast, there!" and down the range we go; 

Five hundred miles of scattered camps will watch for Cobb and Co. 

Old coaching towns already decaying for their sins; 

Uncounted "Half-Way Houses", and scores of "Ten-Mile Inns";

 The riders from the stations by lonely granite peaks; 

The black-boy for the shepherds on sheep and cattle creeks; 

The roaring camps of Gulgong, and many a "Digger¹s Rest";

 The diggers on the Lachlan; the huts of Farthest West; 

Some twenty thousand exiles who sailed for weal or woe ­ 

The bravest hearts of twenty lands will wait for Cobb and Co. 

The morning star has vanished, the frost and fog are gone, 

In one of those grand mornings which but on mountains dawn; 

A flask of friendly whisky ­ each other¹s hopes we share ­ 

And throw our top-coats open to drink the mountain air. 

The roads are rare to travel, and life seems all complete; 

The grind of wheels on gravel, the trot of horses¹ feet, 

The trot, trot, trot and canter, as down the spur we go ­ 

The green sweeps to horizons blue that call for Cobb and Co. 

We take a bright girl actress through western dusts and damps, 

To bear the home-world message, and sing for sinful camps, 

To stir our hearts and break them, wild hearts that hope and ache ­ 

(Ah! when she thinks again of these her own must nearly break!) 

Five miles this side the goldfield, a loud, triumphant shout: 

Five hundred cheering diggers have snatched the horses out: 

With "Auld Lang Syne" in chorus, through roaring camps they go 

That cheer for her, and cheer for Home, and cheer for Cobb and Co. 

Three lamps above the ridges and gorges dark and deep, 

A flash on sandstone cuttings where sheer the sidlings sweep, 

A flash on shrouded wagons, on water ghastly white; 

Weird bush and scattered remnants of "rushes in the night"; 

Across the swollen river a flash beyond the ford:

 Ride hard to warn the driver! He¹s drunk or mad, good Lord! 

But on the bank to westward a broad and cheerful glow ­ 

New camps extend across the plains, new routes for Cobb and Co. 

Swift scramble up the sidling where teams climb inch by inch; 

Pause, bird-like, on the summit ­ then breakneck down the pinch;

 By clear ridge-country rivers, and gaps where tracks run high, 

Where waits the lonely horseman, cut clear against the sky; 

Past haunted half-way houses ­ where convicts made the bricks ­ 

Scrub-yards and new bark shanties, we dash with five and six; 

Through stringybark and blue-gum, and box and pine we go ­ 

A hundred miles shall see tonight the lights of Cobb and Co!

By Henry Lawson


If I knew it would be the last time That I'd see you fall asleep, 

I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep.

 If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door, 

I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more. 

If I knew it would be the last time I'd hear your voice lifted up in praise, 

I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day. 

If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute to stop and say 

"I love you," instead of assuming you would KNOW I do.

 If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day, 

Well I'm sure you'll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away. 

For surely there's always tomorrow to make up for an oversight, 

and we always get a second chance to make everything just right. 

There will always be another day to say "I love you," 

And certainly there's another chance to say our "Anything I can do?" 

But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,

 I'd like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget. 

Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike, 

And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight. 

So if you're waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today? 

For if tomorrow never comes, you'll surely regret the day, 

That you didn't take that extra time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss 

and you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish. 

So hold your loved ones close today, and whisper in their ear, 

Tell them how much you love them and that you'll always hold them dear 

Take time to say "I'm sorry," "Please forgive me," "Thank you," or "It's okay." 

And if tomorrow never comes, you'll have no regrets about today.

Author unknown


By Henry Daniel. 

The morning shone as fair a morn as ever smiled on earth, 

Since from the sun's unceasing fount the glorious light had birth; 

The pastoral vales, and breezy hills in summer, beauty clad; 

Seem'd Edens, where the human heart could never long be sad. 

Who had believed that morn so bright, the herald of distress, 

Or that it wore a traitors smile beneath such lovliness! 

The deep blue heaven without a cloud, so calm, so wondrous fair, 

Who had believed the thunder shaft of death was lurking there. 

There is a valley where the work of human hands are seen, 

Where mant a darkling shaft descends below the surface green; 

Tis there the miner plies his task, in peril night and day, 

To gather riches at a price that words could ne'er repay. 

The "bucker" sings some lively tune, for light of heart is she, 

The whistling "whim-boy" with a jest, laughs out right merrily;

 The iron giant lifts his arm, by thee thy wizard steam! 

The work goes on, and no one dreams of death, or danger near. 

But ho! when brightest looks the world, then have we most to fear; 

When lips breath friendship, and when eyes so kindly glance the while, 

Prepare thee then to bear the change, of coolness for a smile. 

Deep booming on the startled ear the thunder voices crash. 

Peal after echoing peal resounds, and flash succeedeth flash; 

Behold - a sudden darkness spreads across the sultry heaven. 

And in a blaze of dazzling light, the pall-like cloud is riven, 

As if the deep had broken there the the spell of  its control. 

Wide sweeping from the deluged hills, the gathering waters roll; 

Down - down - the mighty torrent pours, Great God it thunders down! 

And in the agony unseen, the gasping victims drown. 

Yet dauntless in this hour of dread, the unconquerably brave, 

(True heroes) venture limb, and life, to shelter or to save. 

Above the fearful place of doom, is heard the widows cry, 

And unavailing tears bedim the lonely orphans eye; 

And stern strong men of iron nerve, are seen to quake and quail; 

And not a lip but trembles there, no cheek but what is pale. 

Above the thunder's pealing sound is heard the torrents roar, 

The valley seemeth to the eye a sea without a shore; 

And lo! the early rescued cling to kibble and to chain. 

Down with the speed of lighting, down again, again in vain! 

Link after link, the last appears without its living freight; 

No word is breath'd, but speaking looks proclaim it all too late; 

Too late the death knell of our hopes, and dreams so bright before. 

The sentence pass'd by Destiny, to be revoked no more. 

Tis mockery now, all human aid, but yet the human will, 

So strong is nature in the heart, would nobly struggle still. 

The "shop" the "bucking shed", the "floor" in ruin swept away. 

Like leaves befor the wirlwind's wing in Autumns brown decay. 

What is the power, or pride of man, in which he takes delight. 

When all the element's at war arouse them in their might? 

With solemn tone from Newlyn's tower is heard the funeral bell, 

The living of the shrouded dead have ta'en their last farewell; 

But not in vain the living plead to Britain's liberal land, 

The mighty and the rich step forth with open heart and hand.

For the Fallen 

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 

England mourns for her dead across the sea. 

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, 

Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill: 

Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

 There is music in the midst of desolation 

And a glory that shines upon our tears. 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, 

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. 

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, 

They fell with their faces to the foe. 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: 

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. 

At the going down of the sun and in the morning 

We will remember them. 

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; 

They sit no more at familiar tables of home; 

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; 

They sleep beyond England's foam. 

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, 

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, 

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known 

As the stars are known to the night; 

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

 Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, 

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, 

To the end, to the end, they remain. 

Written by Laurence Binyon.


Davids, Davids everywhere, but none the correct link. 

In this confusing research it really makes you think; 

What our ancestors were thinking when they named their children fair? 

Did they know in later years we would be pulling out our hair?

 "Ah ah!" you say, narrowing down names of many a dozen.

 "Oh, good grief!" your reply discovering he has wed his first cousin. 

So how does yet another David fit into this family group? 

Figure it out later -- your brain has turned into pea-soup.

 Enumerators, as we all know, were quite a sneaky bunch. 

They were crafty in their writing and you really have no hunch,

 If the name that you are staring at truly belongs in your line. 

Oh, my gosh, this boy's a girl! Well isn't this just fine? 

You sit and stare and laugh at the errors you've just found. 

You wonder what your ancestor, long buried in the ground.

 Would think of this mistake, when you know that in his life,

 He took three different women to be his wedded wife. 

Our research would be easier had they stayed in just one place, 

But as most of us discover, that is simply not the case. 

From Connecticut to New York, and from there on to Ohio, 

"Why couldn't they stay put and simply write their own bio?"

By Thalia Brown

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Gulval Churchyard

"My eye is wet with tears 

For I see the white stones 

That are covered with names 

The stones of my forefathers graves"

by Sir. Humphrey Davy

on a cornish recipe book

0, Cornwall, with your cliffs so grand, 

Your beaches, rich with golden sand; 

Where waters blue, and clear, and deep, 

By granite boulders silence keep. 

Oh, hills and dales, 0, valleys green, 

Ablaze with heather, seldom seen 

Elsewhere than midst the Cornish moors, 

Or clustring round her ancient tors. 

Where, bordering road, and path, and lane, 

The golden gorse is all aflame, 

From early Spring to late September, 

As if to pray you to remember 

That health abides mong Cornish hills, 

Where all can find relief from ills; 

Where cares and worries of to-day 

Will spread their wings and fly away. 

And in these pages you will take 

Much comfort for your stomach sake; 

For body ease means rest and quiet, 

And here you find ideal diet. 

Here Recipes quite polygot

Shenagrum, Likky, Eggyot, 

Star-gazey, Figgyobben Pie, 

And Remedies for Wart and Stye. 

There Cornish Cream and Pasties rare, 

And Saffron Cake beyond compare; 

So read, mark, learn, digest, and then 

Pass on to Tre, and Pol, and Pen. 

A. W. Jay 1929.

the well of sT keyne

A Well there is in the West Country, 

And clearer never was seen. 

There is not a wife in the West Country, 

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

An Oak and an Elm tree stand beside, 

And behind does an Ash tree grow 

And a Willow from the bank above

 Droops to the waters below. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne. 

Joyfully he drew nigh. 

For from cock-crow he had been travelling 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear

 For thirsty and hot was he; 

And here he sat down upon the bank, 

Under the Willow tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring town, 

At the Well to fill his pail, 

On the Well side he rested it 

And he bade the stranger hail. 

Now "Art thou a batchelor Stranger?" quoth he, 

"For, an if thou hast a wife, 

The happiest thou hast drunk this day, 

That ever thou didst in thy life", 

"Or hast thy good woman if one thou hast 

Ever here in Cornwall been 

For an if she have, I'll venture my life 

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne".

 "I have left a good woman who never was here", 

The Stranger he made reply; 

"But that my draught should be better for that

 I pray you answer me why". 

"Saint Keyne", quoth the countryman, 

"Many a time Drank of this crystal Well 

And before the angel summon'd her 

She laid on the water a spell. 

If the husband, of this gifted Well 

Shall drink before his wife 

A happy man thenceforth is he 

For he shall be Master for life. 

But if the wife shall drink of it first 

God help the husband then". 

The Stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne,

 And drank of the waters again. 

"You drank of the Well I warrant betimes", 

He to the countryman said. 

The countryman smiled as the Stranger spoke 

And sheepishly shook his head.

 "I hastened as soon as the wedding was done 

And left my wife in the porch 

But i'faith she had been wiser than me 

For she took a bottle to Church". 

An Old Lady's Poem.... 

What do you see, nurses, what do you see?

What are you thinking when you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman, not very wise,

Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes? 

Who dribbles her food and makes no reply.?

When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!" 

 Who seems not to notice the things that you do, 

 And forever is losing a stocking or shoe..... 

Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will, 

With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill....

Is that what you're thinking? 

Is that what you see? 

Then open your eyes, nurse; you're not looking at me. 

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,

As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will. 

I'm a small child of ten ...with a father and mother, 

 Brothers and sisters, who love one another. 

A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet, 

Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty -- my heart gives a leap,

Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,

 Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,

Bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,

But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

 Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;

I look at the future, I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing young of their own,

And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman ...and nature is cruel;

Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,

There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,

 And now and again my battered heart swells.

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

And I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,

And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

 So open your eyes, nurses, open and see, 

Not a crabby old woman; look closer, see ME!!

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In Memory of John Miller


The Morning Beach

by Anna Murphy

This sky,
Now there's a thing....
It seems too big for understanding,
And so,
I try to look at my own bit
And get it under my skin
Like the best of love.

Into this blue,
Blue of the deepest seas
And widest skies,
My heart swells like tides
And beats like the roaring sea.

The amber sun
Is as warm as friendship,
And when I've got my sea legs,
I shall stand firm
Against all storms and crafty breezes
And look that blue
Right in the eye.






Idyls of the King

For there was no man knew from whence he came;
But after tempest when the long waves broke
All down the thundering shores of Bude and Boss,
There came a day as still as heaven and then
They found a naked child upon the sands
 Of wild Dundagil by the Cornish sea;
 And that was Arthur.
Idyls of the King - Tennyson

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Dear Ancestor

Your tombstone stands among the rest
 Neglected and alone.
   The name and the date are chiselled out
 On polished, marbled stone.

 It reaches out to all who care
 It is too late to mourn.
You did not know that I exist.
You died and I was born.

Yet each of us are cells of you
In flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
 Not entirely our own.

Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
 One hundred years ago,
Spreads out among the ones you left,
 Who would have loved you so.

I wonder if you lived and loved,
 I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you.

Author Unknown

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Written after wandering the churchyard on a warm, damp summer evening close to dusk.

The church of St Gwinear

Through gentle rain and lowering sky

Of evening,

Provoked by summer heat,

I slip through lych-gate,

Dark in shadow,

That bears upon its walls

The sadness of lost youth -

A sadness hanging still,

From times long gone,

That down the years


But from the gate the path brings peace -

A path cut deep by countless feet,

Marked by leaning cross

With figure cut of old,

That long ago showed

Passage through the fields

For those who came in faith

To share both joy and grief

A calm and healing power is here

That lifts the soul and makes it soar.

Startled by my footfall,

A flash of iridescent wing

Sweeps from lichened porch

And lancing skywards slips into the dusk.

I lean through darkened door

And see, in nature's symmetry,

Clay-cupped 'neath age-stained beam,

New life, full-fledged

But yet not flown,

Tucked tight to roof

In perfect stillness.

Smell of leaves and wet grass

And in the air,

A dampness tangible,

That seeps through clothing,

Hangs on hair,

And brings to feet in summer shoes,

Exquisite coolness.

But over all the stillness,

Time-stopping in its depth,

A mystery evolves and grows,

In swelling murmur.

Name on name is heard,

That fills the air

And spills from from slate

Worn smooth by nature's gentle rub.

I stand amidst this sea of stones

And know that here beneath my feet

My people lie,

The ones I never knew,

So far away in time,

But in me now -

Their blood is mine,

Still coursing strong.

The continuity of time,

Unbroken still.

David Oates, Troon, Cornwall.

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The Coming of Arthur

'ere I sit all forlorn
Clutchin 'old me crowdy crawn
The kangaroos all passed me by,
'I'm 'ere, I'm 'ere' I did cry
'I'll come in me Dennis engine red,'
Was what tha Cap'n Vegie said
But 'ere I sit and weep and mourn
Awaiting a lift to the place I be born!!

Come back for me someone please
I'll even pay the wretched fees
But what is this?  the sky turns grey
Is someone there? I hope and pray
Oh dear the evening nights turned  rough
But what is this? a mighty chough
My hero Arthur 'as come for me
My Lord I am on bended knee

I am to return as a Cousin Jack,    (Jinny doesn't rhyme)
Upon his mighty raven back,
To 'is castle on the misty moors
Open the drawbridge and the doors!!
I'll  join my cousins on Cornish-L
So raise your glasses and toll the bell,
We know that we, all share the call
Dear Kernow onen hag oll

Julie, The Camborne Girl, Australia.

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                                            ODE TO THE KINGDOM

And so to Fort Dyndagell did Boadicea come,
Not as a party-pooper, she didn't want THAT fun.
She'd read of good King Arthur, in all the hist'ry books,
and what she really wanted, was giving him HER looks.

Fair Igerna was in the doldrums, Gothlois had leav-ed her,
for  he was off a'fighting (tho' not for longer more).
He’d left her at Dyndagell, the safest place to be,
so Uter couldn’t see her, and sit her on his knee.

But, … Merlin had a plan, to fool the guard at gate,
He’d alter the Pendragon, to appear just like her mate.
He’d get Pendragon in, with or without his sword,
straight past that silly Porter; seeming like the Lord.

Now, Merlin might play changelings, for just a moments time,
but Boadicea was the master, throughout ALL mankind.
Young Merlin was her brother, se'en thousand years before,
and, while pard'ning his intrusion, she’d given him the lore.

She allowed Merlin the power, to see Pendragon in
and bad him keep the secret, so that she would win.
The lady’s maid was tiny, ‘twas to Boadicea’s good,
she tipped her off the cliff-top, changed places, as she could.

And when Igerna summoned her, (there was no thought of doubt),
woe then poor Igerna, as she it was went out
as lady’s maid (Boadicea stayed), to let Pendragon in.

And down through all the Cent’ries, as, goodly Queen, WE think,
Why, that’s Queen Boadicea,  …hrm .. hrm, .. NO I did NOT wink.

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Good Health.

Here's to your healths good blood,

Here's to your bloods good health,

If you haven't got healthy good blood ,

You will never have bloody good health, 

thank you, Gwynneth in Kempsey, Akubra Country

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Bunyip Bluegum, Sam Sawnoff & Barnacle Bill would like to warn off any would
puddin' thieves amongst the Piskies & Spriggins  with their Anthem as

"The solemn word is plighted,
     The solemn tale is told,
We swear to stand united,
     Three puddin' owners bold.

When we with rage assemble,
     Let puddin'-snatchers groan;
Let puddin' -burglars tremble
    They'll ne'er our puddin' own.

Hurrah for puddin'-owning,
    Hurrah for Friendship's hand,
The puddin'-thieves are groaning
    To see our noble band.

Hurrah, we'll stick together,
    And always bear in mind
To eat our puddin' gallantly,
   Whenever we're inclined."

So, fair warning, all the mischievous little folk watching on the party

Lady G  ( Gina Francis) from Gumma Garra Lake -
Bundjalung - Oz

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"Come join us we entreat, 

Come join us we implore, 

In Friendship's name our guest we claim,

And Friendship's name is Law, 

 We've Puddin' here a treat, 

We've Puddin' here galore; 

Do not decline to stay and dine,

 Our Puddin' you'll adore.

Our Puddin', we repeat,

You really cannot beat,

And here are we its owners three

Who graciously entreat 

You'll be at our request,

 The Puddin'-Owners Guest"

Hand of Friendship

'Then let the fist of Friendship

Be kept for Friendship's foes.

Ne'er let that hand in anger land 

on Friendship's holy nose'


PC from GP's collection

Like empty shells,
The granite houses stand
Upon the moors
Their windows gaping,
Glassless; wood long vanished
 From the doors.

Old chimneys rise
 From hearths where fires once burned
In days gone by;
And through the roofs where
Grey slates used to be, is
Seen the sky.

Homes once were they,
Now birds within them roost
And lonely cry;
And in the gardens
Tall and weedy grasses
Cool winds sigh.

Who were the men
Who cut and brought the stone
>From quarry small,
To build the house, and
Round the ancient garden
Put the wall?

Who were they, too,
Who, many years ago
First dwelt within?
Miners maybe who
Worked the nearby veins of
Ore for tin,

Or husbandmen,
Who broke and farmed the crofts
By sweat of brow,
No monument is
Theirs, no stone to tell their
Story now.

But Centuries
And generations too
Have passed away.
Now have they every
One left heath and cams of
Moorstone grey.

Where did they go?
Did they obey the Call
Of distant lands,
And in some foreign
Place find work to which to
Put their hands?

In some dark mine,
Perhaps, a little group,
Just as before,
Together worked, yet
To new landscapes climbed at
End of core.

And when their toil
Was done and lights, at eve,
Were set to burn,
Can we suppose that
They were ever thinking
To return?

And yet they did
Not, for these houses on
This Cornish moor,
Windswept and silent,
Hold but ghosts where men once
Were before;

And are but ghosts
Themselves, till in some time
They, although old,
Might be rebuilt and
Live again, their story
Be retold.


(First prize winner, Cornish Gorsedd, 1964)

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Cornish Carols At Troon

One sound and that was all it took

To bring the picture flooding back

Through endless years,

And, focussing, the picture clears.

One sound, the rasp of boots on stone

As through the darkened streets they hurry on,

Strange race of men apart,

 Held by a common bond

That held their fathers, too,

And still grips strong -

The east wind cuts and moans;

The group of men pull tight

And burst forth into song.

Young joins with old as one

And rising, swelling, breaks like light

Into the darkest chambers of the night.

They sing as one and on the wind-cut hill

For this brief moment in eternity,

Time stands still.

And from the shadows

From the mists of years,

Step those of long ago.

And we, together, keep the faith.

That shaped this land

And made it strong.

The magic slowly fades

And leaves with us,

In windswept darkness lying,

The echoes of an age.

David Oates, Troon, Cornwall.

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Cross Street is gay. The chip shops crowded,
And crowned with a blue, electric star.
The gift tree by the fountain shimmers,
Superbly tall, if angular.

In Trelowarren Street the lights do dazzle,
The shops are having a mini boom.
>From our church tower the bells are ringing,
Incessant, through the afternoon.

Breathless, with boxes hard to handle,
The taxi drivers come and go.
Madam Chairman with lighted candle
Set's fire to the Council's tableau.

The little children looking heavenward.
Cluster, mittened, in the Square
They talk of Santa, half affrighted,
Waiting in the cold night air.

And early are the windows lighted
Encouraging shoppers to come inside.
A glass is lifted in celebration
It's spend, spend, spend at Christmas tide

But at the crossroads near the station
Troon's carollers begin to sing.
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"
Up Camborne Hill they let it ring.

And as they sing it in the side streets,
Others come from out their homes,
Here comes the cornets and euphoniums,
E,flat bass and slide trombones.

Now band and choir are joined together,
Camborne raise your voice and sing,
Yes, Christmas is a time of pleasure,
For Jesus is our new born King.

by George Pritchard

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Coles house.jpg (31409 bytes)

Tis Christmas on the Cornish List,
A time of year that can't be missed.
Time when friends from the world around,
Seek solace on our Cornish ground.

Friends so distant, yet so near,
Friends who seek a past unclear.
Yet Christmas is that time of year
When friendships are so much more dear.

And so, with merry hearts and joy,
The 'serious' it seems we do annoy.
Yet frivolous though our antics be,
The depth of feeling all should see.

For this is more than just a List,
And all it's members are not...
(but it rhymes)
This joy and pleasure, we have found,
Gives 'serious' pleasure all year round.

John Coles (Party Host 2002)

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The Watcher

Silver sun whose shafts of steel
Reach across the cold purple sea.
Wind-dried tears - lost land - lost memory.

Footsteps echoing  - then plop and splash
As down the cliff face stones are tumbling.
The sunlight - winters sun - now weak and faltering.

A lone figure, tall, but body bent
Against the natural force unseen.
Hard walking, slipping, sliding, elemental barriers - a silent scream.

On the shore pebbles twinkling ;
Suck and surge, ebb and flow.
Broken boat, oar-less rudder-less, tossed blithely - to and fro.

Deep blue cape, white flowing beard ;
An old man stumbling, eyes dim, heart light.
Cast ashore above the waves a new born babe - future bright

Clouds hasten, a fox barks,
Sea mists roll in, salt stings the eye.
An ancient story, oft repeated, echoing down - time to time

Darkness gathers - velvet night falls,
Sprinkled starlight and silver moon appear.
Clifftop watcher, climbs the beacon, lights the solstice fire - calms
ancient fears.

Sandra Pritchard (nee Vingoe)

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In my room behind the curtains
In touch with friends across the nations,
Safe in that computers glare,
A virtual party I'm planning to share.
Australia, Canada, they log on.
New Zealand, Scotland, even Gabon.
Friends down there in Frisco Bay,
And other folks in the US of A.

In front of my screen I sit and wait,
Typing in names, addresses and dates,
It's like an illness I've got you see,
This bug they call Genealogy.
Yet each New Year and Christmastide,
The books and charts are set aside,
Where shall we go, the questions asked,
And e-mails all come flashing back,

Wisconsin, Sydney, Wellington, Perth,
Mexico, Cumbria, Hawaii for surf.
Backwards and forwards the emails fly,
But the answer is plain to everyone's eye.
It must be Cornwall for that is home,
Mousehole, St Germans, but never Rome,
Camborne, Redruth, Bude or Hayle,
What about Tintagel someone mails.

We decide on Arthur and Merlin as hosts,
It does not matter that they are ghosts,
With a little help from our friend John
We know Tintagel will be fun.
Arrangements are made, 18th the day,
When all of us friends will come out and play,
And that room with the lighted window you see,
Will be empty just then, for I will be free.

Free to roam in medieval halls,
Free to dance, and not to fall,
To meet with friends from across the sea,
Nothing they do will anger me.
In a virtual world there is no pain
In a virtual world no madness reign's
No politicians, car-rage or fuss,
No robberies, murders or firms going bust.

After the party the world is the same,
But we have our memories of parrots and games,
We've met with the Gummies from the outback,
Sunk ships in the channel and danced with a cat.
Rode on an elephant, and boxed a big Roo,
And found lots of other things we can do.
We heard Holmans choir, played spoons in the band,
In fact the whole party was really just grand.

If you can't understand it, well now that's a shame,
You are missing a treat, that is also a game.
Some say we really should, go get a life,
But I have a good one right here with my wife.
We've worked on the treadmill, from morning till dusk
Not made lots of money, but hey what's the fuss.
The things we have got that's worth more than gold.
Are the friends on this list, and the stories they've told.

George Pritchard, Penhalvean, Cornwall.

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In this strange land I have touched the light,

and have run with the white hart beyond the

Shores of endless summer to their secret place

where our lord the king still sleeps,

I have seen things that are beautiful,

now the shadows grow longer

Their are ripples on the water 

The ferryman draws near


In this strange land I have known great power, 

And have fought with the strength of the boar 

against the lords of chaos at the wastelands 

edge where Merlin keeps his watch,

I hear things that are fearful,

 now the shadows grow longer,

 there are ripples on the water

the ferrymen draws near.

By John White of Troon.

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    The peace of the running wave to you;
    The peace of the flowing air to you;

The peace of the quiet earth to you;
    The peace of the shining stars to you;
    And the peace of the Son of Peace to you.


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