The mighty trucks with their loads of stone
Thunder through from Portland,
Down the High Street and past the Pound
Then the hill confronts them.
A change of gear, a long slow climb
and Devil take the hindmost-
A National Bus approaching slow
Wonders 'Will I make it ?

Whilst Lou sits passive on his bench
His little dog beside him
And waits with his all-knowing smile
While the rush goes on around him.
He ponders on the time gone by
Before the petrol engine
When Burton was a peaceful Place
With little to disturb them.

The Reading Room with cosy fire
And Newspapers and Billiards,
Stan Wilas and his village shop
The Dove and its strong cider.
The Horseshoes with its one small bar
Where fishermen coud drink in peace
And talk of boats and seines and tides
With not a thought of how they dressed
Or can they wear their Wellies.

The women in their long black skirts
A gossiping at doorways
Their hands at all times busily
Working at their nets and braids.
The Village Dance on Sat'day night,
The flirting with the fillies.
Sunday morning go to church
Then on to beer and skittles.

The cottages in Southover
Before the fire destroyed them.
The boats pulled high on Chesil Beach
No tar then to pollute them.
Bertie dashing down the hill
'The mackeral are straying'
The dropping of the hoes and spades
Then the mad dash to net them.

The stables by the old 'Dove Inn'
Where horse and cart were ready,
The sea harvest to collect.
Then the wild race toward West Bay
Wher the fish salesme awaited.
The lass who came from Abbotsbury
flat fish from there did carry
To sell in Bridport each Wednesday
The fish- but ne're her cunny.

Does Dennis still remember now
Tree vaults across the river?
The gatherings in the Anchor bar
The shotgun blasts and curses?
The foxes kept within the pens
To serve the Gentry's pleasures.
And what is now Norburton Hall
That then was known as 'Sturdies.

Next we come to a tree lined hedge
And then the fir lined walk
Where we waited for the Shipton kids
The noddies for to pelt them.
The stealthy watch
As the gardener left
For his noonday cider.
Then into the greenhouse,
Through the trees
To pinch his fruits
For we were hungry.
The high stone style
From the Shipton track
The school gardens 'longside it.

The flaxen mill
With its water-wheel
The river underneath it-
No need then for a book to learn
For it was all around you.
Food came then from men and field
And not in cans or packets.
Fish a'plenty from the sea,
Morning mushrooms by the score,
Eggs from hens around the door
And cider by the bucket.
The Legion marching down the street
Their banner proudly flying.
The men with medals shining bright
All gained with honour in the fight-
To keep their homeland free.

For boys-
The organ in the church to pump,
Their names to carve with a knife that's blunt
While the Parson preached his sermon.

Walking back from town at dusk,
The setting sun behind you.
No cars or lorries rushing by
Belching fumes to choke you,
Only the smell of God's good earth
And the saltspray from the briny.
But progress in the name of health
Was rapidly approaching.

The sewage scheme, which proved too much
For Pitt-Rivers and his resources.
No more could one sit in the little hut
Down at the bottom of the garden,
Reading the news from the torn up squares
Of yesterdays Echo and Guardian.

For the developers and the agents came
And there was a mighty auction.
But, no need for more,
You can see the score.
The results are all around us.