John Webber was the Widecombe policeman in the 1860's and, in a modest way, was something of a bard. He was known as 'The Dartmoor Poet'. The following extracts are from his book, which you should get hold of if you can. The extracts have relevance to other stories in this website.

The Tower

At the west end of th’ Church it stands

On the very place, or near,

Where once stood a more ancient one

Undoubtedly at the rear.

It stands close connected with th’ Church

But of more recent date

And if for tracery you search

Nothing will indicate.

A faint style of Sixteenth century

Is there, but not complete,

In the staircase is that tracery,

But not authenticate.

So majestic, tall, and handsome

It stands th’ champion of th’ moor

And we to day may glory in

Our fathers gone before.

It’s been handed down through centuries

That those our fathers were

A tribe of successful miners

Who gave us th’ noble Tower.

Another branch, by hundreds,

Were scattered o’er the moor;

They went by the name of streamers

Streaming the valley’s o’er.

Tin then being in abundance,

And other costly ore,

To GOD they offered in obedience

Part of their golden store.

Both the miners and the streamers,

Inspired by Heavenly grace,

Each drove, as it were with hammer,

A nail in a sure place.

I’ve seen many gaze and wonder

As to its marvellous height,

But none made attempt to measure,

None could describe its height.

Of all the grand towers in the west

For this one can excel,

But one may be found at Probus,

In th’ County of Cornwall.

Its height and design of building,

Similar to that of ours

In all point, but not exceeding

This noble Tower of ours.

In eighteen hundred and sixty-four-

The day was bright and fine-

By appointment I met the Vicar,

That man of GOD Divine.

He said "Though th’ task be difficult,

We’ll struggle hard and try

From floor to top of pinnacle,

And ascertain how high."

To th’ measuring we proceeded

With plumbob rule and line;

In th’ measuring I assisted

The Revd. P. Carlyon.

Now by rule it has been measured-

That no one can deny-

And from floor to top one hundred

And twenty-five feet high.

Now praise GOD for their charity,

Ye rich, as well as poor,

And hand down to posterity

"The miners gave the Tower."

Extracts from ‘Poems on Widecombe-in-the-Moor’.

Concerning North Hall

North Hall, a mansion house so grand,

And near the village green,

And on an eminence did stand

Surrounded by a stream.

North Hall was then the Manor House,

A place of high renown,

Protected by a water course

O’er which a bridge was drawn.

A water course it may be called ,

In other words a moat,

Full ten feet deep and twenty broad

Fed by a gentle brook.

This Mansion House then built so strong,

Arched doors with iron bands,

Where th’ ANDREW family lived so long

Inside that Mansion grand.

One hundred years ago and more,

I have been told as such

The ANDREW name in days of yore

Was then respected much.

Respected, yet he must be bred

A very wicked one,

A Fox into the Church he led

While service being on.

When reminded by the Vicar

In th’ law he’d made a breach,

Said, "the Fox already new his prayers

And now would learn to preach."

The stately oak, the elm tree tall

And box tree ever green

Was once a pleasing sight to all,

On North Hall’s ancient scene.

There was the grand arched avenue

And holly always green,

The yew tree, and the laurel too,

All adding to the scene.

A large Rookery was also there

As finish to the scene ;

Cawing rooks, no one could number

When they were on the wing.

This mansion once so grand and gay,

No trace can now be found ;

The Bridge, the Moat, gone to decay,

That did this house surround.

The stately oak, the elm tree tall,

There saw their infant day;-

Grew on, at last a victim fell

By time that brings decay.

The weeping willow, yew tree too,

Would there in silence weep,

O'er those departing immates who

Grim death, has called to sleep.

That ancient lofty bird, the Rook,

True to its home would be,

She from that place her flight has took,

Never more there to be.

Those ancient ones who once lived there

Their footprints all defaced,

Worn out by time, or grass grown o'er,

No one can find a trace.

Th' King of North Hall, I've heard would scound

The beggar from his door ;

Of such by some I've heard the sound,

‘Twas true in days of yore.

The Crown has left the Kingly brow,

The staff the beggar's hand

Laid low, moulding together now,

Before one judge must stand.

Death comes to all we plainly read

In spite of all our powers,

The tall, the wise, the Reverend head

Must lie as low as ours.

Concerning Dunstone

Through the hamlet that of Dunston,

Records an ancient type,

Where lived those of HEXT and HAMLYN,

In eighteen sixty eight.

HAMLYN an old border dweller,

One of the olden type,

An old yeoman and freeholder,

Lived on his own estate.

He conversant and familiar,

Was most intelligent,

Although fourscore years or older,

His sayings nice and quaint.

1 have heard him boast the grandeur,

When in his company,

They were lords of Dunston Manor,

When Cromwell had the sway,

They were the most ancient family,

In Widecombe of today,

Dates back to sixteenth century,

When wealthy then were they.

HEXT, they too were Dunston dwellers,

Of ancient pedigree,

Also yeoman and freeholders,

In seventeenth century.

HEXT, HAMLYN, became united,

By lawful marriage ties,

Heritage became divided,

On few had brought surprise.

At th' bottom of th' green yonder,

Stands the old Manor House,

Where lived the lords of Dunston Manor,

In th' reign of James the first.

Within this old gothic structure,

The HAMLYN's would reside ;

HEXT’s of late have followed after,

But gathered up and died.

Let historian or th' stranger,

For th’ purpose of research,

Pause o'er this old gothic structure

With its sharp pointed arch.

I’m told by both HEXT and HAMLYN,

Of that huge granite block,

That stands in Dunston Village Green,

Had a basin on th' top.

Manor Courts were formerly held there,

Some sat round, some on th' top,

Chief rents and dues deposit there,

In th' hewn basin on th' rock.

They likewise informed me further,

Of th’ relic they had lost,

That stood near that massive boulder-

‘Twas an old roman cross.

But th' Vicar, Mr. MASON, came

And carted it away,

Placed it in the Vicarage garden,

Without the yea, or nay.

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