Rudkin was one who cattle sold,
Laughed loud, talked bold;
Children got, drank at inns,
Nor thought much of his sins.
Stout his legs, broad his back;
To live and thrive he had the knack.
All who went out, all who came in,
By Threckington, knew stout Rudkin.
Rudkin is dead; his name has gone
Clean out of mind at Threckington;
If one should ask for Rudkin there
The village folk would stare and stare.
Long he's been dead; dead as Queen Anne:
Hangs on my wall his warming pan;
In hall hard by, solemn and clear,
Ticks the tall clock he used to hear;
Little Miss Wright, all unaware,
Reads her paper in his chair.
Down by the bridge the parapet
Is still chipped where his wain upset;
By the old barn there's an old pear
When he was wed he planted there.
His drover's dog was very like
Our butcher's cur; a mongrel tyke;
He had a bull with a crooked horn,
A heifer I saw like it this morn.
Down at 'The George' in market place
There's a bold wench wears his bold face.
NOTE: There is no village of Threckington, although historic references to a locality of that name, probably a manor, place it near the village of Market Deeping, Lincolnshire. The George Inn no longer exists, but an inn of that name is recorded as being in Market Deeping at 7 Halfleet. It is now a residential dwelling. [Ref].