By Len A.Hynds

They call this stream the Stour,
where we let the horses rest,
and then within the hour,
we shall be at Orlestone Crest.

That’s our stockade, an army post,
at Ham in our fairest Kent,
then we patrol, along this coast,
to stop the French intent.

The Quarry Hills, overlook the sea.
high path of the old Saxon shore,
every few hours, a patrol of three,
ride to keep you, safe and sure.

Safe and sure, from Napoleons men,
now gathered across the sea.
That tyrant sits in his Calais den,
so confident is he.

The village seen, above us here,
seems to nestle on the hill.
The tower of St Marys clear,
so peaceful and so still.

Ashford village, so aptly called,
on high ground with water meadows.
It’s lovely church, the graveyard walled.
The sun on stonework mellows.

Our Colonel thinks it’s Romney Marsh,
where the French will come ashore.
Forcing the Yeomanry in battles harsh,
so to be at Ashfords door,

A blocking position, I heard him say,
preventing help from the West,
whilst two columns go Folkestone way,
to secure that port and invest.

Sandling Castle would be by-passed,
Dover Castle just too much a threat,
Their armies would pour ashore at last,
the conquest of England set.

So St Mary’s tower would be a vital spot,
with Napoleon standing therein,
studying the ground, the battles hot,
confidently feeling to win.

But what they don’t know, is our secret canal,
which thousands dig every day.
To be filled by the Rother, it sounds banal,
but will certainly stop their way.