This poem is based on a story related to the author by a farm worker in 1936. He said it was true.

Wilburton is a village small

Northwest of Cambridge City,

At edge of Fen, on Haddenham Ridge,

The scenery there is pretty.

In May each year, in days gone by

The feast and show takes place;

Their flowers and vegetables they ply,

The priest intones a grace.

Squire and his lady, entries judge,

Decide who makes the betting,

Squire's port makes him decisions fudge,

The losers furious getting.

Now Farmer Brown, who tilled the fields,

Would give first prize each year,

This time a caddy pig he yields,

Besides a gallon of beer.

Josiah Pink, who works on farm,

Some turnips large allotted,

The blemishes hid round the back

In hope they'd not be spotted.

Josiah's wife, geraniums shows,

Displayed in beds of moss.

With gillyflowers as well, she knows,

They're bound to please the boss.

'Twas true, the wife (her name was Joyce),

She won first prize, and given the choice,

She chose to take the caddy pig,

When she got home, a sty she'd rig.

Josiah then decried her choice,

Rebuked his wife with no mean voice,

Told her she should have 'took the beer' —

When they got home 'twould cost her dear.

Those blemished neeps, surprising all,

Squire (only he'd not seen the fault),

Said second prize to them would fall

The losers howled 'Shame, that's not sport!'

Josiah collects the beer with glee,

Drinks half of it then home to tea

Was squiffy-eyed, so did not see,

Joyce, caddy pig upon her knee.

Cad pig was scrawny, far from pretty —

Her siblings had her share of titty;

Of children Joyce had ne'er a one,

Took to the pig like her own son.

Christens it Albert, like her own dad,

Josiah says 's'sow!' and thinks she's mad.

Joyce renamed her Alberta, gave her milk and bran,

Let her sleep in the kitchen, annoying her man.

But pigs tend to grow very big, very quick.

And kitchen was much, much too small for a sow.

Josiah home from work one day feels very sick,

Finds Alberta's asleep on the sofa, I trow.

'You said you were going to rig up a sty,

Why didn't you do it, just you tell me why.'

His wife said she loved Alberta too dear,

It would break her wee heart now, she mops up a tear.

'I'll not stay in this house with that pig any more,

So choose twixt Alberta and me, that's the score.'

Up early next morn, Joyce packs up her man's clothes,

And when he comes down, she just shows him the door.

That sow became famous, she took to the street,

And nothing would move her, not carriage nor feet.

So all must drive round her — in centre she'd lie,

Not to bobby nor driver would she blink an eye.

She grew bigger and bigger, soon weighed nearly a ton,

But Joyce she still loved her,

Said 'Must have her have fun.'

The moral of this tale is easy to tell,

If wife wants a pig, say 'You go to... work!'

Poetry and Prose Archives

Len (Snowie) Baynes

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