|1.||Thou for many years hast stood,|
Overlooking field and wood;
From thy top the village green
And the distant sea are seen.
|2.||From thee also may be viewed|
Widemouth beach and town of Bude,
And thro’ the drear waste of night
Can be seen the Lundy light.
|3.||From thy belfry rings the call,|
“Come to Church, ye people all,”
And the same bell’s mournful toll
To the graves doth summon all.
|4.||Unchanged, thro many changes, thou|
Art scarce the worse for age e’en now.
On thy walls so strong and gray,
The force of storms is thrown away.
|5.||Long ago was thy foundation,|
Laid ‘midst general exultation.
But the men who work’d that day,
Centuries since, have turned to clay.
|6.||Would that on thee were conferred|
Power to tell what thou hast heard,
Things that men have said and done
In the days long past and gone.
|7.||Strange the stories thou could’st tell|
Of those who in the village dwell.
Queer indeed would be the history,
Revealing much that’s now a mystery.
|8.||Thro’ the day dost thou look down|
On the busy little town,
And at night strict watch doth keep,
While the foil-worn peasants sleep.
|9.||Since on the thee sun first shined|
Mary Week has much declined,
Men have fled and trade has waned,
Markets stopped and pockets drained.
|10.||Since, on Greenmore’s grass and heather,|
Bonaventure strolled at leisure,
Funerals many hast thou seen
Winding o’er the churchyard green.
|11.||There, beneath thy shadow, rest|
Rich and poor, whom none molest;
Deaf to all that men may say,
Sleeping till the judgement day
|12.||Then from calm and lengthened sleep|
Some shall wake no more to weep;
Some with terror and dismay
Will the trumpet’s sound obey.
|13.||Scoffers then will cowards turn,|
Sinful people all shall mourn
But the true and upright man
Shall be set at God’s right hand.
|14.||Adieu, old Tower, tall and strong;|
My stay at Week will not be long;
Like thee may I e’er be straight,
And in every act upright.
|T. C. JACOB|
Week St. Mary 1879