The 8th Earl of Severn

In a dank, decaying mansion,
By a fusty, ferny fen,
Lives the drear 8th Earl of Severn,
With his acid-dipp'ed pen.

Armed with Purdey on his shoulder,
And a visage set and grim,
He's off to shoot some Welshmen,
Says his ag'ed mind a'dim.

He's flanked by two retrievers;
One chocolate, one white,
Which, 'cos' he's a cheapskate,
Keep the Earl's feet warm at night.

But the Welshmen all elude him,
They are far too fleet of foot,
So he trundles home all weary,
To his ceilings stained with soot.

He sometimes drops into the village,
Where the townsfolk scowl and jeer,
For he can't command the deference,
His class enjoyed in yesteryear.

In the evenings, by the fire,
Stoked with books of mould and must,
Sits a sad, demented figure,
Counting stocks left in the trust.

There are squatters in the stables now,
And pigeons in the roof,
There were livestock in their thousands once,
Though not much left now, on the hoof.

For the heyday of the manor lord,
And the stiff, Brit upper lip,
Has long up and departed,
Or been taken to the tip.

So, as each long, slow year passes,
And his soul approaches heaven,
Shed a tear for that lost England,
And the ageing Eighth of Severn.