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By chance in England I was born,
Mid all the cold and wet,
When German bombs a metal storm,
Fell to our sad regret.
We braved the gales and melting sleet,
Wrapped up in overcoats,
As fog and ice devoured the streets,
Formed swirling frigid moats.
The milk in bottles froze to blocks,
Water pipes cracked and burst,
We wore out many pairs of socks,
And the freezing weather cursed.
Icicles hung translucent spears,
From taps and gutter rims,
Where from the dew had dripped for years,
Wherein the insect swims
With Winter gone all drained away,
Beneath the Springtime sun,
The kaleidoscopic mass in fine array,
Of new blossoms had begun.
The Daffodils and the Tulips bloomed,
The Buttercups and Daisies too,
And in the forests bluebells swooned,
To provide a splendid view
The Sycamore trees spread their limbs,
As if yawning themselves awake,
The fox crept home to hide his sins,
In the hedge growth by the lake.
The Church Bells rang across the shire,
They had a joyous ring,
The weathercock spinning on the spire,
The sun warming everything.
Children ambled off to school,
Dressed in their coats and rags,
Along the pathway by the pool,
Below the Dovedail crags.
And crashing through the Spondon gates,
The York to London train,
Hissed and clattered in mad haste,
To turn back home again.
The mansions up on snobbery row,
With gardens fine and trimmed,
Where all the cemeteries flowers grow,
Death keeping them well trimmed,
Looked down upon the village shops,
Like monarchs made of stone,
And where the avenue suddenly stops,
Stood there our little home.
A council house the last one there,
Where the clayfields start and stretch,
To stony lane where the Spondon fair,
Has hardly started yet.
Old Osbisten with a pair of blacks,
Hooked up to a highway coach,
Is on his way along the back,
To make his surprise approach!
The horses high on bran and oats,
Stepping on with fetlocks high,
The glistening polish of their coats,
Catching everyone's admiring eye.
The passengers 'from another time',
With the gentlemen in their plumes,
Alongside ladies dressed divine,
Who would make a tulip swoon
The see-saws squeak with rhythmic voice,
The swings swish up and down,
There's side shows declaring lots of choice,
Children gather round the clown.
The Coronation Band, Red, White and Blue,
Competing for the prize,
March up and down in line as true,
As best they could devise
A Boy Scout group their camp fire lit,
Make damper over the flames,
While nearby the 'oldies' sit,
To argue out their claims
From the grass a Sky Lark sours,
To vanish in the blue,
As from a tent the speaker roars,
And startles quite few
Ready set go, the race is on,
Eggs balanced on their spoons,
The crowd is yelling come on! Come on!
As a side show singer croons
There are all those sounds of love and joy,
The laughter and the play,
For I reckon every girl and boy,
Are happy this fine day
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