| A lonely cottage on the mound | 
| A century’s work of | 
| Stood trembling and quiet | 
| Until it was acquired | 
| By canny Joe the quilt-maker | 
| He fenced in a patch of land | 
| As from the stroke of a magic wand | 
| A garden | 
| Sprung forth | 
| From the hand of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| His cot secure, his flowerbeds neat | 
| Glad were his neighbours all to meet | 
| And chew the fat | 
| And to swallow the coffee | 
| Of kindly Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Of each he had some good to say | 
| Some friendly token to display | 
| And seldom few people | 
| Could cheer a winter’s day | 
| Like gregarious Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Beloved by all even the | 
| Great | 
| And at the dinner table | 
| Sometimes they set a plate | 
| For respected Joe the quilt-maker | 
| His quilts with country fame were crowned | 
| Superbly sewn and dotted around | 
| With pretty little figures | 
| And in flight | 
| Most ingenious Joe the quilt-maker | 
| His wife was sick bedridden and old | 
| To ease her pain he spent he sold | 
| Oh there was never bought | 
| Not for silver or for gold | 
| Such love as Joe the quilt-maker | 
| From dawn til dusk he tenderly nursed | 
| The poor old hag grew worse and worse | 
| And soon | 
| She was lifted to a hearse | 
| By heartbroken Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Lost in widowhood’s embrace | 
| All hope had flown without a trace | 
| The home they’d made | 
| Soon become a cage | 
| For enfeebled Joe the quilt-maker | 
| But there were friends who cheered his days | 
| Both coin and food they strove to raise | 
| And there was always some kind soul | 
| Dropping in to say | 
| Afternoon to Joe the quilt-maker | 
| The days and months and years rolled by | 
| The scales were lifted from his eyes | 
| The ground beneath his feet and the | 
| Colour in his cheeks | 
| Were restored to Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Not seeing past the end of his nose | 
| Back to the needle he nimbly goed | 
| In several of the taverns | 
| We raised a cup of ale | 
| To courageous Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Often in his solitary | 
| Through spectacles and godly verse | 
| A mirror made of paper | 
| Would stare at the reflection | 
| Of pious Joe the quilt-maker | 
| And first he Autumn of his days | 
| In quiet contemplation | 
| Except when he would welcome | 
| A wandering stranger | 
| Most hospitable Joe the quilt-maker | 
| From which dark source it cannot be said | 
| Somehow the bogus rumour spread | 
| That never in Hexham | 
| There’d been a richer man | 
| Than impoverished Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Strolling round the market square | 
| A smiling pilgrim unaware | 
| The devil’s in the doorway | 
| Of the old hall | 
| With his eyes fixed on the doomed quilt-maker | 
| I found a pair of clogs in the lane | 
| Some drops of blood where they had lain | 
| And following the breadcrumbs | 
| I came upon the dreadful | 
| Remains of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| It must have been a number of days | 
| The fat black flies were on his face | 
| I fainted in a flowerbed | 
| And threw up on the bright yellow | 
| Poppies of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Judging from the wounds on his hands | 
| It’s fair to assume a most valiant stand | 
| Was met by his assailants | 
| And fought out to the very last breath | 
| Of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| It’s thought they numbered two or three | 
| The evidence was plain to see | 
| And a garden hose sticky with the | 
| Grey hair of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| Despite a hundred Guinea reward | 
| The culprits have remained uncaught | 
| And nobody is looking | 
| Each other in the eyes | 
| At the funeral of Joe the quilt-maker | 
| And now that night is drawing in | 
| I pull the quilt up to my chin | 
| And listen to the trees outside | 
| Creaking in the wind | 
| A song for Joe the quilt-maker |