The Pied Pyper of Hamlyn

Nestled in far high mountains,
'neath shelter of vast grey crags,
there lies a nestled valley,
of pastures and meadows green,
and scattered all around and down,
to the banks of the mighty river,
there lies the town of Hamlyn.

A town of peace and plenty,
of cobbled and neat swept streets,
which runs between the timbers,
of whitewashed houses and shops,
that lead all the way right down,
to the bustling wharf and dock,
where the great river barges stop.

The busy burghers bustle,
between work and pleasure and home,
with always a hale and hearty greeting,
for this is a happy town,
where everybody's neighbour,
is everybody's friend,
for always willing to help.

But trouble too there is here,
in this fair and peaceful town,
a curse, a plague or some such,
which drives all to despair.
So bad that every family,
owns not one cat or two, but three or four.
for Hamlyn's plague is that of the rat.

The vermin are everywhere,
and nary a house escapes.
For many years this trouble,
has the town of Hamlyn cursed,
despite many efforts,
despite many varied schemes,
of all the townsmen's guilds.

For many years this great plague,
carried on and on unchecked,
until the day there came to town,
a harlequin from far away.
He went down to the market,
he stood upon a box,
he shouted with a loud voice,
until all the town-folk stopped.

“People of Hamlyn now hear,
I have heard of your great plague,
and can drive your rats away.
With what will you pay my wage?”
Into an amazed silence,
did a voice loudly proclaim,
“As much gold as a man can carry!”

Someone else shouted,
“I'll second that.”
So the piper nodded assent,
and now to the town's lowest point,
he made his way and went.
There down by the riverside,
from his small knapsack he pulled,
a small flute into which to blow.

At first the blown notes were few,
but so soon a tune appeared,
then the piper went walking,
and as around the town he went,
from out of their hidden places,
poured rats both young and old,
'til all the Pyper they did follow.

Out of town the Pyper went,
and on up the valley gorge,
the rats they followed for not one,
could resist the Pypers lure.
At last they came to the high cliff,
and as the Pyper played on the edge,
the rats all leapt to their death.

Standing again in the square,
“Please pay me,
for this work I have done.”
But not a burgher answered,
preferring all to ignore,
each and every left to hide,
in the shelter of their home.

“If you will not pay me my dues,
then your youth I will take from you.”
But there were no listeners.
So the Pyper played a tune,
that made all the children follow.
They followed him to the high cliff,
and he piped them over the edge.

There is a town called Hamlyn,
a town both quiet and clean,
for the Pyper came and took,
the rats and the children away.
Accursed now is the harlequin,
though most their fully realise,
that this curse is all their own.

(This is an older poem of mine, and there are obvious deficiencies in how it flows. I'm considering a rewrite, but thought I'd put up the original. I've given it a darker turn than even the story which inspired the original.)

text by stuartcturnbull, art by wikilmages via Pixabay