THE DAWSLEY GHOST.
Oh, have you heard the latest news
Of how a ghost was seen,
By people whom we cannot say
Are altogether green.
To Dawsley they had been, it seems,
To hear a parson preach;
And service done they harried on,
Their cosy homes to reach.
T\’was Sunday night, the moon was young,
And cast a silver sheen
On all the gum trees in the vales,
And o\’er the hillocks green.
ln such, a scene, oh, would that I
Could wander on that road,
Acknowledge to some charming girl
The debt of love I owed.
Alas! I\’m old, and now from me
Suck, happy scenes ace fled
With mem\’ries of a lovelit past,
Long buried with the dead.
But these good folk that trudged along
Were lassies bright and fair,
Whose silver laughter rang upon
The balmy evening air.
And laddies, too, with buoyant heart.
Beside the lassies strode
With manly, light, elastic step,
Along that Dawsley road.
Old fogies, too, serene and calm.
Were walking with the young,
Whose blended voices harmonised.
And through, the wattles rung.
In jocund mood, they strolled along,
Bereft of every care;
When lo! their merry mood was changed
To grim and horrid fear.
From out beneath a bridge was beard
A deep sepulchral moan.
Soon followed by unearthly sounds,
And then a horrid groan.
“Come down,” a ghostly voice called out,
“Come down at once, I say;”
But rooted to the spot they stood,
Upon the Queen\’s highway.
The ladies all began to scream,
As nicely as they could,
While all the men with trembling knees.
In silent horror stood.
Then bounded from that sullied group,
Young brave and stalwart Joe,
Declaring by his lady love,
Beneath the bridge he\’d go.
Like hero true he plunged below,
That bridge so drear and dark,
Declaring he would catch the ghost.
And prove the thing a lark.
He soon returned, and said he saw
A figure white and tall
Quick vanish through a wooden fence
Through panels, post and all.
He said he thought it was no ghost,
But some \’owdacious\’ fellow
Whom he would like to pommel well,
Until he\’d roar and bellow.
The ladies all admired Joe,
And gave him each her blessing,
Each wishing he\’d got the chance
To give the wretch a dressing.
So let us hope with all our heart,
When next he sees a ghost
He\’ll grab him by the heels or neck,
In spite of rails or post.
I send this yarn with true intent,
In hope that you may know
In Nairne there dwells and flourishes
That brave young miller Joe.
An original poem written by Mr F. Lines in 1877, describing a ghostly incident near Nairne.
Researched by Allen Tiller. 2020