Lost Houses

It’s said, at every Halloween,
Beneath dark, dreary skies,
That, from deep Kielder’s waters,
The old farms do arise.

The men rise up a’ working
And tending to their sheep,
While children play in all the fields
So green and lush and deep.

There’s Whickhope and its Valley,
Where once the salmon swam
Along the streams so lovely,
Now flooded by the Dam.

There’s Emmethaugh and Wellhaugh,
Shilburnhaugh, The Belling, too,
And Mounces and its meadows
That every sportsman knew.

The lovely fields of Otterstone,
Extending to the Border,
Rise up against the flooding foe
And stand above the water.

And other farms appear again,
Hawkhirst, Leaplish, The Law,
And Lewie, each a shepherd’s home,
Where sheep grazed by the score.

And finally comes Bewshaugh,
Ten houses and the farm;
Now all of these rise silent
And showing still their charm.

But find yourself on Viaduct,
Above the waters blue,
And you may sense a rattling train,
Its steam and ghostly crew.

The view you see is Plashetts,
The houses, farm and shop,
The railway station and the trains,
We thought would always stop.

So when, on Kielder’s shore, you gaze
O’er waters grey and cold,
Just think about the farms below
And shepherd folk of old.