I was walking on Greeba,
I was walking on Slieau Ruy,
I was thinking about Barrie Haughton,
that good old boy;
a Lakeland sage, a scholar,
a grumpy old sod
with a wicked sense of humour
and a bone to pick with God.
The wind was from the east,
it was blowing fresh and strong;
we could barely stand up
but our heels were heather-sprung;
our hearts were sad and weary,
as they often are,
but we still hoped for one last drink
in The Well Rope Star.
Notes
Once, your heels
were heather sprung - A Very Pulmonary Poem
I'll moor my boat
to the Well Rope Star:
drink with the barbarians. - Eden Valley
AND
"David - What a belting name for a pub - The Well Rope Star, I never thought of that."





