The Packhorse Bridge at Stow is old:
The 1650’s, so I’m told,
When horses could not ford the river,
Cross with grain or wool deliver.
The Gala flows and winds its way
Past the Church we see today
St. Mary’s of slight Wedale fame
Where witches once were burnt in shame.
And nearby pulled in bucket loads
Just South and near the ancient roads
Our’s Lady’s Well, the Valley Shrine
With wishing water, pure, divine.
King Arthur built it, legend holds
And here the story quite unfolds
He stopped awhile to rest his feet
Before ascending Arthur’s Seat.
The Church at Stow, to bless and sing,
When wool was just the very thing
To ring Victorious to the throne
Those farmers near the ancient Stone.
The Brook so near Bow Castle Brok
its Packhorse bridge and the old church clock
Are relics passing down the years
Our culture bathed in sunlit tears.
Yet tears of sorrow, tears of joy
Should bolster every girl and boy
Our Spirits up, and lest they fall,
Our Village buildings still stand tall.
Enshrine yourselves in such delights
This countryside and rural sites
That time and weather have defied
To fill our hearts with National Pride.