A VILLAGE REMEMBERED

Bruisyard, a place where Romans brewed their beer,
But now, a sleepy Suffolk village, with pheasants, cattle and deer,

The church's Saxon tower, a lookout for invaders up the river Alde,
Now, the river's just a stream, but the congregation still flock to the fold,

A favourite place, our village pub "The Butchers Arms",
Sold "Bullards" beer, to the men from the local farms,

Our Village Hall "The Iron Room" where all the villagers met,
For Socials, Whist Drives, Parties and Dances we'll never forget,

The village Blacksmith was "Peckham Clow",
He'd shoe a horse, forge in iron, and even mend a plough,

For sixpence, seated on his anvil he would cut your hair,
He is reputed to have pulled teeth, but I don't recall a dentist's chair!

Bruisyard Hall has seen some changes, Convent and Monastery, to Country House,
The "Poor Nuns Of St Clare" were founded here, now it's owned by Mr Rous,

Our shop was here in Tudor times selling lace, flour, spice and tea,
In later years it sold groceries, lamp oil, coal and sweets, but gossip here was free,

Old characters have died and gone, there offspring no longer here, but that's no surprise,
Their cottages have all been bought up, and modernised,
Then sold on for massive sums,
Out of the reach of, young local, dads and mums,

Now, in the age of dormitory villages, the population's changed, but is it for the better?
No pub, no shop, no village hall, the blacksmith long since gone, but, we still have our postbox, at least we can send a letter.

Written by Peter Robinson