They came to slay in battle and their brothers kill
So the blood flowed down the slopes of Ankle Hill
Muskets, pikes and blades vied in a wars discord
As they churned the turf and soaked red the sward
Theirs was not to think, or ask, or even reason why?
But death would find them between the ridge and Eye
Up the slope they went, as their Royalist foes bore down
Mayhem and carnage, all for (or not) a tarnished crown
It was a day to die in hundreds, like slaughtered sheep
As the blood and gore poured and pooled to ankle deep
All those lost souls, for what and why? No one can tell
On that cold February day, borne from the fires of hell
Memories lapsed, a century passed and a house was built
Upon the killing grounds where so much blood was spilt
Renamed, rebuilt, more than once, with bricks and mortar
'Twas Wyndham Lodge, on Ankle Hill, a place of slaughter
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