Ye Moste Haunted Goldene Fleece
Olde Yorke towne, of high renown, dates back before ye floode
Two thousand years of historie and moste of it prettie goode
As Eboracum, York was home to Rome’s imperial mighte
Then Jorvik, under Norsemen, always spoyling for ye fighte.
Thys city faire hath had its share of mayhem through the yeares,
Whych led to lottes of sudden deathe and loud lamenting teares,
From violente deathe comes unquiet souls that seeme to take delighte
In scaring goode folke shyttless going “bumpe” all in ye nighte.
Throughout Yorke towne each Inne sets downe ye phantomes that it claimes,
And some have headless serving men and some have blacke-clad dames.
And ancient roomes that echo to ye tramp of ghostlie feet,
Their claimes do growe and yet they knowe, in truthe, they can’t compete
While most Innes there do claime their share of souls that know no peace
They’re jealous as hell of ye ghosts that dwell in ye famous Goldene Fleece
For centuries ye Fleece has been thys haunted Towne’s top pycke,
There are more ghoules within its walles than at wych ye may shake a styck
Top of ye bille, and haunting stille, is ye ghostlie Lady Peckett
She wanders abroad but, thank the Lord; she never maketh a racket (sorrie)
For a moderne spook ye need onlie looke at ye airman sunke in gloome,
A Yankee flyer that did expire when he tried to flie from hys roome.
Ye ghostlie starre of ye Bottom Bar is a man in humour sour,
A grumpie old bloke in longe blacke cloake who grumbleth by the hour,
And tells with groanes and ghostlie moanes of how the world’s gonne madde,
For all the worlde he acteth like he’s Victor Meldrew’s dadde.
Many have spied a Victorian childe in ye Top Bar, clear as a wynk,
A winsome lad who, it is said, departed thys life through drink;
How can it be that one so young should end his life thys way?
It seemeth he was trampled to deathe by the hooves of a Brewer’s Dray.
Down in ye cellar lie’s the ghoste of a feller who was hanged for rape and pillage,
And a soldier from Rome that maye never go home, who marcheth through ye stillage,
In ye kitchen a childe, by tyme beguiled, doth come and goe withal
And ye spectral shade of a tender maid doth vanishe through ye walle.
There’s an olde dead chappe in Tri-corn hatte by ye name of “One-Eyed Jack”,
Who roameth abroad with pistol and sword to ye Bottom Bar and backe,
Wyth a coat of red and a wigge on hys head he paces ye bar in tears,
Tis no surprise, he’s not been served in over 300 years.
Nowe it has to be saide that ye sighte of a heade neathe its owner’s arm can shocke
And ye cowled head floating over ye bedde can make ye knees to knocke
Beste stay awaye iffe ye hearte is fraile or ye longe for an evening of peace
Butte iffe you’re uppe for a frighte come and spend ye nighte in ye ghostlie Goldene Fleece.
Originally Posted by Einar
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