A fow years back a very old and crochey bar man at my local pub passed away in the snug one night he was famus for being a crouch
and some of the locals where asked to pen some words in his memarey for the walls. This is mine ;o)
The tail of the Holybush Ghost
There is a ghost in this house of ale.
Said the old man to the boy, quite pail.
It hunts the halls and the stares
Caching hikers quite unawares.
Throw the snug late at night
Giving young lassies such a fright.
He comes throw like the cold set to freeze
Cutting like the harshest winter breeze.
Some times you can hear him say
"get ya fat ass out of t'a way."
Or whisper with dread in your ear
" yall be ill if ya drink all that beer"
As it sulks slowly to the seller
Like some cursed hung-over feller.
From where he came I can now tell
Not from the fiery halls of hell.
Nore from blissful haven I would vouch
But from Millford came this infamous grouch
At this inn when clock hand's to 11 do tick
Know than that it is the time for Moldy-Mick
"Have not you home t'a go to" the ghost will cry
"Bugger off you lot" you will hear him sigh
And as you slowly close the free house door.
he whispers "don't bother t'a come back for any more"
For ever in this bar he will remain
all these yellowed walls are his domain
And on the calling of last orders
he trudges forth to patrol its borders
The boy looked shocked knowing the hour was late.
"What did he do to deserve such a fate"
Heed my words well the old man spoke
For this poor souls fate is no joke.
“If in life a mean grouch you be,
So in death you’ll remain for all eternity.
So when in a pub make light of pain and strife
and thus get a more just and better after life"
S.E.Varney 2002
