Mumbles in Verse
Editor: Carol Powell  

Jack Webborn Punches a Ticket (1920s)
H.F. Maslen

 The man in the corner sat reading the news,
And he spoke not a word to a soul,
He held up his paper and shut out the views,
As the train started off with a roll.

And nobody there in the carriage could say
Who this strange looking fellow could be,
Though he'd just bought a 'Season' and ridden three times,
So he felt like a shareholder, see.

Now just as we went under Mumbles Road Bridge,
Bill Shellock came in at the door,
But the chap in the corner had dropped off to sleep,
So all he could get was a snore.

So when Harry Bailey and Griffiths came in,
Fred Williams and Zeal too, pell mell,
They tried to awake our slumbering friend,
For each had a ticket to sell.

In bustled Jack Webborn, he soon woke him up,
And asked him his ticket to find, '
My face is my ticket,' this shareholder said,
And the rest of his speech was unkind.

But Jack's temper was ruffled at last,
By the man he'd disturbed from his doze,
And 'to punch every ticket, I've orders,' said he,
So he punched him hard, right on the nose.

Recollections (1990s)
Joyce Hewett (née Evans)

I walked last night in the paths I knew
Near the house where I was born,
The house that stands upon a hill,
Now deserted and forlorn.

My thoughts strayed back to those happy days
When the house was filled with light,
With the sound of laughing voices there,
Happiness and delight.

I remember the house in summertime,
The windows open wide,
The garden filled with fruit and flowers,
The sound of the murmuring tide;

Picnic times and games we played,
Trees we climbed each day,
Bluebells in our little wood,
Lights across the bay.

I remember the house in wintertime,
The winds that howled around,
The 'tu-whit, tu-whoo' of the nightly owl
As he sped towards the ground.

The castle in the moonlight's glow,
Seen from my bed each night,
The beam from the distant lighthouse
Filling my room with light.

Where'er I may be I'll remember
Those times in the house on the hill,
The folk who made those happy days-
Their memories are with me still.

A Holiday (1973)
A Summer Visitor

Each year a holiday we take,
So to what better place could we make.
It is just a short journey on the bus,
Once again it is the Gower for us.

We never expect the best of weather,
But as a family it is a holiday together.
Just to relax and spend the days,
In many of the beautiful bays.

The people down here are very kind,
And a better welcome, you would nowhere find.
They really go out of their way,
To make a holiday a memorable stay.

Oystermouth is the place where we always stay,
If you stand on the front, you can see right out on the bay.
And to the right, really quite near,
Is the Mumbles lighthouse and the pier.

To the far left of this lovely bay,
Is Swansea just a few miles away.
Just to stand quietly and gaze around,
You can see the beauty that is to be found.

Out on the water in the bay,
Can be seen both night and day,
Yachts bobbing to and fro,
As in and out the tide must go.

But the prettiest time is in the night,
When the front and the cliffs are all alight.
Brightly lit bulbs of every hue,
From miles around are on view.

People come to the Gower from many places,
And through the years we have seen, lots of strange faces.
Everyone enjoys this locality,
But most of all, the Welsh hospitality.

Two weeks down here speed quickly by,
And once more we deeply sigh,
How we would love to linger forever,
In a place that is called the Welsh Ri-VI-Era.

Mumbles (1978)
Alwyn Thomas 

Squealing gulls and sighing sea, 
That's Mumbles, 
And toasted teacakes for tea, 
That's Mumbles, 
White topped waves and white sails 
Friendly feeling that never fails 
Warmest welcome in Wales, 
That's Mumbles. 

Sunshine and smiles summer long, 
That's Mumbles, 
Bright bands and sweet song, 
That's Mumbles, 
Feel free folk to find us 
Come by car or by bus 
We're fine friends with no fuss, 
In Mumbles. 

Shall we see you all soon,
In Mumbles, 
Melodious music beneath the moon, 
In Mumbles,
Enjoy entertainment each night 
Operatic treat alright, 
Duly done for your delight, 
At Mumbles. 

Smale the Butcher - an advert (1910) 

It is acknowledged throughout the town 
The choicest joints at Smale's are found, 
For quick dispatch by road or rail 
There's none to equal Harry Smale. 

 The quality and the Price are right 
So rush to Smale's with all your might, 
Your Christmas dinner will be incomplete 
Unless at Smale's you buy your meat. 

The First Violet (1907)
L.M.N. of Mumbles 

Where streams their lyric wavelets dimple, 
With purple hood and gathered wimple, 
There blooms a wildflower, sweet and simple. 

In ferny dells where ivies creep 
Down-nestling in the moss-grown steep, 
The modest violet wakes from sleep. 

The brook, late bound by Winter's mood. 
Whose playful splash awakes the wood, 
Draws incense from the perfumed hood. 

Through wind-swept branches, bare and scant 
Warm February sunbeams slant 
Pale blessings on the timorous plant. 

Just Listening (2003)
Mary Greaves 

To sit in peaceful silence, or lean upon a gate, 
To watch the tide flow in and out and swirl amongst the rocks,
Just listening to the sound the pebbles make 
Before the world wakes up. 

Just listening to the peace as the sun comes up in beauty, 
And the trees grow strong and tall in splendour 
And the flowers waft their perfume, 
No trace of noise at all. 

 When the moon glides silently across the night, 
And barn owl flies on peaceful wings his quiet errand to fulfil 
And oh what peace to listen, 
When all the world is still. 

To listen then in quietness and hear Your word to us, 
To listen to these sounds of day or night, 
How You restore our souls, Lord, 

When we take time to hear aright. 

The Newton Throne (1911)
'Traveller' 

Within a village near the sky, 
There is a large square stone,
It spans a 'lake,' which smells when dry 
'Tis called the Newton Throne. 

Here Rip Van Winkle sat and slept, 
Nor heeded cold or heat, 
The roadmen cleared the grass that crept 
Around his icy feet. 

My father took me once to scan 
That polished gutter stone-
The villagers yet praise the man 
Who made for them a Throne. 

 Full many a trousers it's worn through, 
And coat sleeves it's worn bare, 
How mangolds and the 'tatters' grew 
Is all that's talked of there. 

Its altar smoke ascends the same 
From clay pipes far from sweet, 
The long-missed pump restored again, 
Guards well this blest retreat. 

An Exiled Welshman in Devon (1912)
Anon 

Dear Old Mumbles, Mentone of Wales, 
In my dreams you are always at hand; 
Your stately cliffs and enchanting bays 
Are like visions of a far-off land. 

As on England's shore I stand, 
I oft-times discern your 'Head'; 
My heart cries out with joy, 'How grand', 
And my soul awakens form the dead. 

Some day when I am free again, 
And all my troubles o'er, 
I will return-yes, to remain, 
And Mumbles will welcome me once more. 

Ode to Langland Bay (1906)
A. Wellesley Batson, Mus. B. Oxon 
Written at the old Osborne Cottage, later the Hotel 

Dear Langland Bay, I love thee best 
Of all the Bays in this far West.
Furthest from Norfolk's highest land, 
Where Sandringham o'er-looks the sand, 
And dunes and firs that fringe the foam, 
Creaming round the Royal Home.
Here from this terrace well-known place-
Where once I greeted kindly face, 
And shook the hand with friendly grasp; 
Alas no more I feel the clasp, 
Nor hear the voices that I knew 
In years gone by! Those days that grew 
Each gladder till the long day's close! 
Those times are past, but still I stand 
And gaze upon the same old sand, 
The crags, the cliffs, the murmuring wave 
That outward moves, the marge to lave, 
Filling the solemn caves with sound 
And throwing ceaseless echoes round.
Beyond the silver line 
Of distant sea the dear hills shine 
Of Devon, native land! Where I 
First saw the sea, the fields, the sky-
Ah Langland! I but love thee more 
Not less to view from thee, that shore, 
Where long lost loved ones lived with me 
Across the solemn western sea. 

A poem by Lady stallholders
at an Oystermouth Church bazaar (1907) 

A little chaff is very well, 
A little harmless laughter; 
But patronage and £ s d 
Is really what we're after