It is of older Whitchurch I often think,

As I journey back through time,

And put down my thoughts in pen and ink,

And try to make them rhyme.

Those were the days of Edwards stores,

The Maypole shop and Charlie Yung,

The rugby field and Elyn's scores,

And Jimmy Armer's fields and dung.

Bill Flay "The Move" and Joe Pring "The Fruit",

Are both remembered well,

So is "Cabby Hill" in his age worn suit,

On his horse drawn hearse with bell,

Idris Evans, who baked our cakes and "pud",

Dan Phillips, a draper proper,

Midwife Nurse Green she was so good,

So was "Foggy" Farr the copper.

So many memories now flooding back,

Of Sunday School and Whitson treats,

Of walks along the railway track,

And the Rialto Cinema's tuppenny seats.

Melingriffith Works. Its Band was great,

Tom Powell quite the master,

Turning up for practice a minute late,

Was, to him a real disaster.

The omnibuses, all opened topped,

With their winding stairs outside,

Were only quiet when the engine stopped

But the drivers beamed with pride.

Gazooka bands they did abound,

In costumes bright and neat,

And made the most unusual sound,

Marching up and down the street,

Those far off days of strikes and floods,

And the foot and mouth disease,

Of us building dens in the Rhiwbina Woods,

And swinging from the trees.

An airman in a biplane bright,

Would buzz across the sky,

The word "Persil" in smoke he'd write,

And to finish dot the "I".

By Tim Burke