Featured in the February 2012 handbook.

The Mulberry tree that once stood here

Where all is barren bleak and bare,

Stood there- so Margate likes to think-

Before the War of the Roses.

And each year since, gave back to earth,

Whether in memory or in mirth,

It’s own rich red, empurpled blood,

Whenever summer closes.

Surely a garden hemmed it in

With Tudor Rose and wild Jasmine,

And a path ran away thro a wicket gate

To a babbling brook - with lass at the brink

And men may come and many go,

But the brooks gone for ever that we know,

And never again will the Sea Bass run

Where men see another go down in drink.

How many besides the Margate clown

Sat under the tree that we cut down?

The Bard perhaps with Marlowe and Ben

And men with tell tale noses.

The trees gone down the brooks dried up

And the gardener comes with a bitter cup.

This we know, if there’s more that we’ll know

As we go the way of the Roses.

Thanks to Alf "Legs" Beeching of the Margate Historical Society for sending us this poem.