The Witching Hour

Posted on Mar 17, 2013


*The following poem is based on a local legend around my home town and is based also on the last highwayman to be hanged in England and I believe Britain entirely. There’s a link at the end if you are interested in finding out more about Robert Snooks. I hope you like it.

The small grave of Robert Snooks, the hangman's tree long gone. Picture courtesy of Rob Farrow and Wikipedia

The small grave of Robert Snooks. The grave of Robert Snooks. Picture courtesy of Rob Farrow and Wikipedia

The witching hour fast approaches
Hear them coming, the ghostly coaches
Horses hooves sounding fast
Who do they carry to their task

They pass the grave of highwayman Snooks
The last to be hung of his kind to boot
Caught in the act of spending his horde
Grassed he was to the law and the lord

Now he rises on midnight horse and all
By god, death won’t stop him this fall
For a meeting of ghosts, goblins and the like
Has put him in the mood for one hell of a fight!

Usually to make him rise you run three times
Around the trees that circle his grave, a bind
Whisper a rhyme saying his name
Arise Robert Snooks, highwayman of fame

Other ghosts come out to play
This town has much to say
Romans rise to meet their foes
Along with Celts whose land they stole

Roam they do in endless flight
If you could see them, what a sight!
They fight, they play, they sing for a while
Trapped between worlds, at least they can smile

A few minutes more and the door shall close
Back they go the ghosts, goblins and bones
Another night that shall come
But always back before daylight’s up…

Posted in: Poetry