The Village Of Eyam Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The village of Eyam in Middleton Dale
Looks over the Derwent down in the vale
Along Hope Valley, that grassy glade
Where Viccars, the tailor plied his trade

A box of cloth from London came
A grim death sentence in all but name
The lid was lifted, the fleas flew out
And signs and portents were seen about

That year, loose cattle had fouled the nave
Gabriel Hounds howled oer each grave
White crickets chirruped, of life bereft
And those who could, locked up and left

Some fled to the moors, to caves or rocks
Threatened with hanging by neighbour folks
If they should attempt to travel afar
With the pestilence, fouler than fire or war

The vicar’s wife was young and frail
But she stayed to work in that fated Dale
While all around, fields, orchards filled
With the blossom of youth by the Black Death killed

Dragged by a rope round ankle or arm
To a pit where the dead can do no harm
The stricken. The Earl of Devonshire’s food
Was left by a stone, for the Common Good

Pipe or herb, sweet smelling flower
No charm or spell could delay the hour
When Death with his scythe from his horrid lair
Scattered the seeds of poison there

In Eyam the tale of lost love's told
By the moss-grown graves of the young and old
Where quarantined, men, their bairns and wives
Paid the price of courage with human lives.