Clegg Ho Poem by William Baron

To look at, ther's nowt mich abeawt it,
Nor is it invitin' to th' e'e ;
For it's noather imposin', nor stately,
But plain,—ay, as plain as con he.
Yet, tho' lackin i' grondeur an' splendour,
'Its prestige ranks high, as we know,
For ther isno' a mansion i' th' ceawnty
Mooar famous to-day than Clegg Ho'.

It's linked up wi' ghostly traditions,
For th' tale runs 'at once on a time,
Tho' heaw far back connot be guessed at—
It win- th' scene uv a dastardly crime.
A wicked an' rascally uncle
Med away wi' two lads -th' lawful heirs,
Becose they wur stumblin' blocks to him,
For he wanted to grab what wur theirs.

Sin' then, it's bin looked on as haunted,
An' as sich it's attained wide reneawn ;
While for ages, i' legend an' story,
We've hed th' ' Boggart tale ' bonded deawn.
As to whose restless shade played its pranks theer,
Uv course, aw'm unable to tell;
But assumin' remorse to be th' reason,
Aw should say it wur th' uncle's misel.

Ther's nowt at o strikin' abeawt it,—
It con claim noather beauty nor style,
Yet i' ghost-lore ther's varra few rivals
To this celebrated owd pile.
A weird reputation clings to it,
'At years connot blight, or decay,
For th' fame o' Clegg Ho' an' its Boggart
Lives on fresh as ever to-day !