by Ned Wilson

Created on: April 15, 2008

I was made the constable here
In 1723
I knew my parish well -
The roads and tracks of these boglands
Were certainly no strangers to me.

There was a fellow then called Alstye
A short man
With a bit of a cast in his eye
And he was employed to be wayman -
A very responsible job.

His job was to point out the paths
That took people o'er the bogs
Avoiding all dangers and mishaps
And safe to the other side.

Man and boy he worked at his post
Thirty five years and more.
When I met him one day
As the constable
To ask him a question or two.

Now many folks had gone missing
Over those thirty five years and more
And we hadn't a clue
Or an idea
Of where they'd gone or why.

The latest missing was Ferris
And I asked if he'd seen him at all
And he said that he had
And he showed me the way he'd advised him
As the safest way to go.

"But that takes him right into the bog!"
I exclaimed with a horrified shout
"If you send him that way he'll die
Without a shadow of doubt!"

Then the wayman quivered with anger
And a touch of unbearable pique
"Well that's the way I always send 'em.
And I'm certainly not changing now!"

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