A Very Strange Occurrence

Dear Journal,



Mr. Jones: image source

     I encountered something very strange today upon my rounds in Willingdon. I stopped at an old tavern, the Red Lion. A farmer, or a notable Mr. Jones in particular – a very heavy drinker, to say the least, claimed that his Manor Farm had been overrun by some alliance of animals – scores of pigs, sheep, and cattle around Midsummer’s Eve. Naturally, all present laughed. But the man seemed quite serious; it was rather peculiar. His story went something along the lines of this: I would not have believed it if I hadn’t heard them myself… Something between Clementine and La Cucaracha could be heard from the manor, The Beasts of England, a sort of anthem for them, sung since their revolution. I have recorded down the words, a snippet of their song.

He had spent much of the Saturday, he admitted, at the Red Lion, drinking away his monetary issues and did not return home until midday Sunday. His farmhands had milked the cows early in the morning and had gone out hunting, forgetting to feed the animals. When Mr. Jones got back, he immediately fell asleep on the drawing-room sofa, with the Sunday paper spread over him. He was woken up by a crashing sound in the store-shed – a cow had broken down the door and all the animals were helping themselves from the bins! He and four of his men rushed to the scene, whips in hand. The animals flung themselves at him, quite out of control, as it were. The animals chased him and his men out onto the road, slamming the five-barred gate behind them. Mrs. Jones took one look and fled. The man’s poor state of affairs led him back to the tavern again.

“Beasts of England, Beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the Golden future time..

Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'er thrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
.

Rings shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.
.

Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
.

Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
.

For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom's sake.
.

Beasts of England, Beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well, and spread my tidings
Of the Golden future time.”

  

- Mr. Whymper