Poem

Whitby

We’ll sing a song of Whitby town

And the years that have flown by

Waves pounding on the harbour walls

And the guillemot’s sad cry

Of nights we supped

In the old "Board Inn"

As North Sea winds blew hard

Then rolling home in the dark midnight

To rooms up Miller’s Yard.

We’ll sing a song of Caedmon

Just a cowherd so they say

Who charmed the monks and Hilda - she

Who drove the snakes away.

Of days we mended

Broken nets

As we gossiped on the quay

And gulls flew out to fishing boats

Returning from the sea.

We’ll sing a song of poor James Cook

And his ships all Whitby-made

From oaks that grew down by the Esk

May our memories never fade

Of the bold "Endeavour"

That sailed

Oceans unexplored

Red duster flapping from her mast

And Whitby lads onboard.

Yes, we’ll sing a song of Whitby town

And the people that we knew

That plied their trades and earned a crust

Down the alleys where they grew.

Just like the mighty harbour walls

That keep the town secure

With Viking blood

From Yorkshire roots

Their spirit shall endure.