In days of yore, long years ago
When Grandma was a belle,
Of aeroplanes and stirrup pumps
Of course, she'd ne'er heard tell.
A tiny mouse the vapours would
Give her, we understand;
How would she then have shaped against
The job that's now on hand?


Our womenfolk without a doubt
In contrast sharp appear;
They shoulder with a cheerful calm
The burdens of the year.
Not only have they planned and schemed
In thgir domestic ken,
But with a will and zest assume
Fire service with the men.


With quite efficient promptitude
They reach the practice fire
And throw a most determined jet
With just a trace of ire—
A sort, of "stand-no-nonsense" air
(Which married men know well);
So soon the blaze gives up the ghost
And gets back in its shell.


And so we raise our old tin hats
To toast our womenfolk Who battle,
just to save their homes,
With water, fire and smoke;
Although, maybe, there's just one thing
May stir their calm repose— !
What will they say if they should get
A "ladder" in their hose 2 ?

If only walls had speaking tongues
As well as keenly listening ears,
What tales we'd hear in Rushden Hall
Where walls, for seven hundred years,
Have heard in ever-changing tongue
The tale of England's fight for life
'Gainst strong, aggressive power without,
And violent internal strife.

These aged walls would tell us how
In Good Queen Bess's lengthy reign
She saved our England from the wrath
Of Netherlands and mighty Spain;
Of how the Squire of Rushden Hall
Would make the very rafters shake
When cheering at the doughty deeds
Of Walter Raleigh, Frankie Drake.

Again the walls would tell us how
The current Squire would then impart
The thrilling news of Waterloo,
Defeat of "Adolf" Bonaparte;
Of flags that hung throughout the Hall
Upon that ne'er forgotten day
When Nelson and the British tars
Pound victory in Trafalgar Bay.

And in more recent years they heard
Of gallantry at Somme and Mons;
When every Old Contemptible
Well earned that little cross of bronze;
And in the days not long ago,
When gravely England's peril grew,
The breath of freedom was maintained
For many, by the gallant few.

As surely as the days go by
Another tale these walls will hear,
An epic that will span the world
And oust the ghosts of want and fear.
And then the Axis Powers will reap
The harvest they so widely sow,
As Allied Nations blythely march
Through Rome, Berlin and Tokio.

Bert Bugg, R.A.F. Sargeant-Pilot,
Was out on patrol one fine morn;
His Oxford roared loud 'midst the sunshine
And swift through the ether was borne.
Soon, casting his eyes down below him,
He shouted in accents of joy,
"Well, blimey, if that ain't old Rushden!
Hooray! Tally-ho! Atta-boy!"

He recklessly opened the throttle,
Pushed forward the joy-stick as well,
And down to the peaceful old town like
A hawk from the heavens he fell.
Bert pulled the old 'bus from her dive at
Just two hundred feet by his "clock,"
And then, as he zoomed his port wing scraped
The tail of the church weathercock.

He banked o'er the Hall and then hedge-hopped
The town, scaring folks into fits
Of unparliamentary language
As closely his wings fanned the Ritz.
At length, his exuberance sated,
This bird-boy once more sallied forth
Upon his patrol through the heavens,
And lay a straight course to the North.

But to this sad tale there's a sequel,
So lend me your ears, Comrade Bugg,
For in my backyard, near the hen-run,
Two miniature graves have been dug,
And in them lie two fine Rhode pullets,
The pick of the whole blooming flock,
Who, when you 'nigh perched on the hen-run,
Expired right away from the shock.

And so 'tis but fair I should render
An invoice to cover their cost
(Not counting the hundreds of hen-fruit
Through you irretrievably lost):
"To 2 fine upstanding Rhode Islands
Both killed whilst at work on their job
By S.P. Bert Bugg and his Oxford,
Nett cash in one month—thirty bob."