I found these poems amongst a load of papers -
The Passionate archaeologist to his love
Come dig with me and be my love,
And we will lots of theories prove;
On hill, in valley, dale and field
We’ll find out what each site will yield.And we will scrape among the rocks
Where Bronze Age man once fed his flocks;
In Roman cities, by whose walls
Melodious birds now make their calls.We’ll camp beside an ancient cot
And stick together bits of pot,
Or work beside some murky becks
While freezing rain runs down our necks.We’ll dig in sun, in sleet and rain
And Neolithic data gain;
In anoraks against the cold
We’ll scratch for flints and dig for gold.With frozen hands and muddy knees
We’ll trench our way from Thames to Tees;
If you can cook on pressure stove,
Then dig with me and be my love.And when there’s nothing else to date
In sleeping-bags we’ll love and mate.
If these delights they mind may move,
Then dig with me and be my love.
The Archaeologist’s Lass Replies
What makes you think I’d be your love
And all those doubtful pleasures prove
To dig in sleet while fingers freeze?And do you think I have the will
To scape away half of Silbury Hill,
Or on a frosty day to sit
In some old Roman refuse pit?Why ever should I give a jot
For Neolithic sherds of pot,
Or single out with loving care
And mark your bits of Samian ware?But I confess I’d be content
To share with you your humble tent
And in a sleeping-bag to lie
Watching the racing clouds go by.Such thoughts, I own, do me console,
I’d even hold your ranging pole:
I’ll cook your meals on pressure stove,
And dig with you and be your love.
Written by Ken Wilson (with apologies to Christopher Marlowe)
