THE DAWSLEY GHOST.
Oh, have you heard the latest news
Of how
a ghost was seen,
By people whom we cannot say
Are altogether
green.
To Dawsley they had been, it seems,
To hear a parson preach;
And service done they harried on,
Their cosy homes to
reach.
T'was Sunday night, the moon was young,
And cast a silver
sheen
On all the gum trees in the vales,
And o'er the
hillocks green.
ln such, a scene, oh, would that I
Could wander on
that road,
Acknowledge to some charming girl
The debt of love I
owed.
Alas! I'm old, and now from me
Suck, happy scenes
ace fled
With mem'ries of a lovelit past,
Long buried with
the dead.
But these good folk that trudged along
Were lassies bright
and fair,
Whose silver laughter rang upon
The balmy evening
air.
And laddies, too, with buoyant heart.
Beside the lassies
strode
With manly, light, elastic step,
Along that Dawsley
road.
Old fogies, too, serene and calm.
Were walking with
the young,
Whose blended voices harmonised.
And through, the
wattles rung.
In jocund mood, they strolled along,
Bereft of every
care;
When lo! their merry mood was changed
To grim and horrid
fear.
From out beneath a bridge was beard
A deep sepulchral
moan.
Soon followed by unearthly sounds,
And then a horrid
groan.
“Come down,” a ghostly voice called out,
“Come down at once,
I say;”
But rooted to the spot they stood,
Upon the Queen's
highway.
The ladies all began to scream,
As nicely as they
could,
While all the men with trembling knees.
In silent horror
stood.
Then bounded from that sullied group,
Young brave and
stalwart Joe,
Declaring by his lady love,
Beneath the bridge
he'd go.
Like hero true he plunged below,
That bridge so
drear and dark,
Declaring he would catch the ghost.
And prove the thing
a lark.
He soon returned, and said he saw
A figure white and tall
Quick vanish through a wooden fence
Through panels,
post and all.
He said he thought it was no ghost,
But some 'owdacious'
fellow
Whom he would like to pommel well,
Until he'd roar and
bellow.
The ladies all admired Joe,
And gave him each
her blessing,
Each wishing he'd got the chance
To give the wretch
a dressing.
So let us hope with all our heart,
When next he sees
a ghost
He'll grab him by the heels or neck,
In spite of rails
or post.
I send this yarn with true intent,
In hope that you
may know
In Nairne there dwells and flourishes
That brave young
miller Joe.[1]
An original poem written by Mr F. Lines in 1877, describing
a ghostly incident near Nairne.[2]
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