The “Butchers of Yorkshire” as they became known
Round Hexham’s remote neighbourhood
In seventeen hundred and sixty one
For shedding Northumbrian blood.
Rubbed from the pages of history’s log
Forgotten unlike Peterloo
Or else Bloody Sunday two centuries hence
With just a small plaque now on view.
Fifty at least were killed that day,
Some young, some pregnant, some old
The North York Militia bearing the shame
As blood on the cobbles stained cold.
So stop for a latte as you pass on through
And set your weary load down
But if you’re from Yorkshire lower your voice
Your musketry laid waste the town.
