In the county of Cornwall, high on a hill,
Stands a monument on which a legend is told.
Chiselled in Granite, unique on this planet
It’s a symbol for all to behold.
But a simple inscription carved in the base
Is needed to explain it in full,
For those who will read`l, realise it’s a needle,
Supporting a large ball of wool.
And now it’s gone into a legend
That local folk talk of today,
It’s a story of right, which prevailed over might
And it began in the following way.
The Northmen of old, greedy and bold,
Would conquer by force and by fear,
And now centuries from then, it was to happen again,
By an evil mill owner from Yorkshire.
A visitor for just a couple of weeks,
He’d made a frightening boast,
He swore that he planned, to buy all the land,
And build woollen mills there, coast to coast.
His factories would stretch from the Lizard,
Through Penzance to St Ives in the north,
And he seemed to get joy from the land he’d destroy,
With the work that he planned to set forth.
Even worse he’d invented a knitting machine,
That did the work of a thousand men,
So if jobs were difficult to find right now,
What would it be like then.
An action Committee demanded a meeting,
And although they kept it quiet,
When the Mill owner turned up and rejected their terms
It quickly turned into a riot.
Hundreds of people jeered and threw stones,
The whole situation was manic,
And that’s when the mill owner made his mistake,
And made an offer, whilst in a panic.
Thinking to get the upper hand, he said that if they had the prowess,
To take on and beat his knitting machine, in a contest over a couple of hours,
He would accept defeat, shelve his plans and move away for good,
But he smiled a bit as he thought of it, and he saw they understood.
His challenge was met by silence,
It was impossible to win they could see,
And he was about to shout loud to the subdued crowd,
When a voice from the back called “ 'Scuse me."
Her name was Vera, and as she drew nearer, they all knew her face and her manner,
For some she was simply known as Mum, and for many more as Nanna.
As the cheers grew the Mill owner knew his challenge had been faced on that hill,
And his confidence dropped, as Vera stopped, and waved for the crowd to be still.
Then they all gave a roar as, like a gunfighter’s draw, she pointed two needles like claws,
And the man dropped his head as she quietly said, “Well, let’s see this contraption of yours."
With nothing to say the man turned away, and the crowd all followed in silence,
With each step he took, his knees visibly shook, as he feared that there might be more violence.
But as they came down and entered the town, to where his device stood in place,
He heard the crowd groan in a hopeless tone, and saw fear and dismay on each face.
They’d never seen such a gigantic machine with so many levers and dials,
With a hundred wools on separate spools, you would probably hear it for miles.
Two engineers stood by a brass covered hood with oil cans held at the ready,
A man with a cap gave the dials a quick tap to make sure the readings were steady.
Meanwhile Vera was given a comfortable seat, with a shade to block out the sun,
A tray with some tea was placed by her knee, and she munched on a small current bun.
“Ready when you are,“ she said with a smile, and her needles began to knit wool.
Caught by surprise, the engineer rubbed his eyes, and forgot which lever to pull.
His hand gave a twitch, and then he pushed a red switch, which caused oil to squirt in his hair,
The machine gave a bang, and with a frightening clang,
Several spinning wheels shot in the air.
The Mill owner enraged, got the right lever engaged and pushed the engineer out of the box,
For Vera's wool had diminished, and she’d already finished, 3 sweaters a hat and some socks.
But now his machine was working fine, with garments hanging on a line,
Clothes of every shape and size appeared like magic before their eyes.
But then a Cornish wind came up, a gale of salty spray,
The line went slack, and with a crack the whole lot blew away.
Vera was still going steady, her friends holding wool at the ready, and her needles flashed in the sun,
The mill owner was jeered, and then they all cheered, as Vera knitted some ear muffs for fun.
But the machine was quickly catching up, there was no doubt it could spin and weave,
‘Til the Technician jumped out, and giving a shout he tugged at the Mill owner’s sleeve.
“We have to shut down for a service, and check the carburettor
But the owner went red, gave a shake of his head, which made all the crowd feel much better.
He threw a quick look at Vera, who had just cast off from some sewing,
“We can’t slow down” he said with a frown, “just keep the blasted thing going.”
But his machine was beginning to vibrate, and a spinning arm fell into halves,
Vera just smiled, and without going wild, she knocked out a couple of scarves.
Despite all their trying, their machine was dying, it could hardly be seen for black smoke,
All the dials were on red, then the engine stopped dead, and a piston went bang as it broke.
With a great screeching sound the machine hit the ground, throwing pieces all over the place,
And with victorious cheers, the crowd grabbed souvenirs, which they shook in the mill owner’s face.
He had to admit he was sunk, his wonderful gadget now junk,
And although he would never ever mention her,
He knew he’d been beaten by an old age pensioner.
Vera's needles were still a blur, and as the crowd surrounded her,
She had twenty five sweaters, twelve socks and ten pants,
And enough woolly scarves for the whole of Penzance.
Twenty pairs of winter gloves and warmers for your legs,
Six furry hats, some table mats and ten small bags marked “Pegs”.
So the contest was done, the mill owner had run and Vera was hailed as the winner,
Then the crowd heard her say, “I’m afraid I can’t stay, I have to get home to make dinner “.
But such was her fame that to general acclaim a statue was erected in stone,
And words were engraved saying how she had saved,
Cornwall’s heritage all on her own.
So the moral is clear, if a villain draws near, and attempts by foul means to rule yer,
Don’t act dumb, just rely on your mum,
And don’t let the white hair fool yer.
Stands a monument on which a legend is told.
Chiselled in Granite, unique on this planet
It’s a symbol for all to behold.
But a simple inscription carved in the base
Is needed to explain it in full,
For those who will read`l, realise it’s a needle,
Supporting a large ball of wool.
And now it’s gone into a legend
That local folk talk of today,
It’s a story of right, which prevailed over might
And it began in the following way.
The Northmen of old, greedy and bold,
Would conquer by force and by fear,
And now centuries from then, it was to happen again,
By an evil mill owner from Yorkshire.
A visitor for just a couple of weeks,
He’d made a frightening boast,
He swore that he planned, to buy all the land,
And build woollen mills there, coast to coast.
His factories would stretch from the Lizard,
Through Penzance to St Ives in the north,
And he seemed to get joy from the land he’d destroy,
With the work that he planned to set forth.
Even worse he’d invented a knitting machine,
That did the work of a thousand men,
So if jobs were difficult to find right now,
What would it be like then.
An action Committee demanded a meeting,
And although they kept it quiet,
When the Mill owner turned up and rejected their terms
It quickly turned into a riot.
Hundreds of people jeered and threw stones,
The whole situation was manic,
And that’s when the mill owner made his mistake,
And made an offer, whilst in a panic.
Thinking to get the upper hand, he said that if they had the prowess,
To take on and beat his knitting machine, in a contest over a couple of hours,
He would accept defeat, shelve his plans and move away for good,
But he smiled a bit as he thought of it, and he saw they understood.
His challenge was met by silence,
It was impossible to win they could see,
And he was about to shout loud to the subdued crowd,
When a voice from the back called “ 'Scuse me."
Her name was Vera, and as she drew nearer, they all knew her face and her manner,
For some she was simply known as Mum, and for many more as Nanna.
As the cheers grew the Mill owner knew his challenge had been faced on that hill,
And his confidence dropped, as Vera stopped, and waved for the crowd to be still.
Then they all gave a roar as, like a gunfighter’s draw, she pointed two needles like claws,
And the man dropped his head as she quietly said, “Well, let’s see this contraption of yours."
With nothing to say the man turned away, and the crowd all followed in silence,
With each step he took, his knees visibly shook, as he feared that there might be more violence.
But as they came down and entered the town, to where his device stood in place,
He heard the crowd groan in a hopeless tone, and saw fear and dismay on each face.
They’d never seen such a gigantic machine with so many levers and dials,
With a hundred wools on separate spools, you would probably hear it for miles.
Two engineers stood by a brass covered hood with oil cans held at the ready,
A man with a cap gave the dials a quick tap to make sure the readings were steady.
Meanwhile Vera was given a comfortable seat, with a shade to block out the sun,
A tray with some tea was placed by her knee, and she munched on a small current bun.
“Ready when you are,“ she said with a smile, and her needles began to knit wool.
Caught by surprise, the engineer rubbed his eyes, and forgot which lever to pull.
His hand gave a twitch, and then he pushed a red switch, which caused oil to squirt in his hair,
The machine gave a bang, and with a frightening clang,
Several spinning wheels shot in the air.
The Mill owner enraged, got the right lever engaged and pushed the engineer out of the box,
For Vera's wool had diminished, and she’d already finished, 3 sweaters a hat and some socks.
But now his machine was working fine, with garments hanging on a line,
Clothes of every shape and size appeared like magic before their eyes.
But then a Cornish wind came up, a gale of salty spray,
The line went slack, and with a crack the whole lot blew away.
Vera was still going steady, her friends holding wool at the ready, and her needles flashed in the sun,
The mill owner was jeered, and then they all cheered, as Vera knitted some ear muffs for fun.
But the machine was quickly catching up, there was no doubt it could spin and weave,
‘Til the Technician jumped out, and giving a shout he tugged at the Mill owner’s sleeve.
“We have to shut down for a service, and check the carburettor
But the owner went red, gave a shake of his head, which made all the crowd feel much better.
He threw a quick look at Vera, who had just cast off from some sewing,
“We can’t slow down” he said with a frown, “just keep the blasted thing going.”
But his machine was beginning to vibrate, and a spinning arm fell into halves,
Vera just smiled, and without going wild, she knocked out a couple of scarves.
Despite all their trying, their machine was dying, it could hardly be seen for black smoke,
All the dials were on red, then the engine stopped dead, and a piston went bang as it broke.
With a great screeching sound the machine hit the ground, throwing pieces all over the place,
And with victorious cheers, the crowd grabbed souvenirs, which they shook in the mill owner’s face.
He had to admit he was sunk, his wonderful gadget now junk,
And although he would never ever mention her,
He knew he’d been beaten by an old age pensioner.
Vera's needles were still a blur, and as the crowd surrounded her,
She had twenty five sweaters, twelve socks and ten pants,
And enough woolly scarves for the whole of Penzance.
Twenty pairs of winter gloves and warmers for your legs,
Six furry hats, some table mats and ten small bags marked “Pegs”.
So the contest was done, the mill owner had run and Vera was hailed as the winner,
Then the crowd heard her say, “I’m afraid I can’t stay, I have to get home to make dinner “.
But such was her fame that to general acclaim a statue was erected in stone,
And words were engraved saying how she had saved,
Cornwall’s heritage all on her own.
So the moral is clear, if a villain draws near, and attempts by foul means to rule yer,
Don’t act dumb, just rely on your mum,
And don’t let the white hair fool yer.