I recently came across this poem in a book of Widecombe published in 1876, it was composed by the famous Dartmoor Poet, Jonas Coaker. Whilst he work may well appear to some as 'basic' he was a prolific writer of Dartmoor verse. In this Widecombe poem not only does he provide us with an example of his talent he also provides a social and historic snapshot of Widecombe. For here he lists many of the 'big houses' of the area along with their owners and even in some cases relates of fires and rebuilding projects. At the end of the work he briefly mentions the Great Storm of 1638 and also throughout he gives the occasional glimpse of his religious leaning, he clearly did not have much time for the 'Chapel Folk'.

A Poem on Widecombe-in-the-Moor.

By Jonas Coaker, The Dartmoor Poet.

And now romantic Widecombe

Shall be the subject of my rhyme,

It seems there is abundant room

To speak upon it at thus time.

For I myself can recollect

The place for more than sixty years,

And when I take a retrospect,

Some wondrous changes there appears.

It seems the old inhabitants

Who lived there in days of yore.

In quietude and self content,

Upon their farms, and sought no more.

But many gentlemen have found

Their way to it of latter years.

To build and to improve the ground-

A different aspect now it wears.

Up to Hedge Barton I'll begin,

And see what work has there been done,

How many thousands there have been

Expended on that place alone.

Squire Tucker purchased Natsworthy,

And hath improved it very much;

And then there's Squire Kennaway,

Of Bag Park, he's another such.

Then next we come to Wooder House,

Which is a new build by Lady Drake,

A place her Ladyship did choose

Such great improvements for to make.

Squire Dymond purchased Blackslade,

Now six or seven years ago,

And great improvements he hath made,-

I've seen it and admired it too.

The next to Scobetor we'go,

Esquire Hern hath purchased that;

Built house there and fences too,

It cost him I cannot say what.

Squire Firth he purchased Cator Court,

And hath remodelled all the place,

With building of such splendid sort,

Which all the neighbourhood doth grace.

There's Blackaton and Grendon too,

Were purchased by F. West, Esquire;

Both the estates I've travelled through,

And its improvements I admire.

The Old Inn hath been built anew,

And master Smeardon living there;

And then there's Master Harvey, too,

Built a large shop and living near.

Again, S. Hannaford, Esquire,

Hath purchased the Southcombe Estate,

And though it was destroyed by fire,

It hath been built again of late.

And Uphill House is built anew;

It stands on elevated ground;

It doth command a spacious view

Of all the scenery around.

Then next to Hannaford we go,

Sir Robert Torrens living there;

He hath improved and builded too,

A different aspect it doth wear.

Spitchwick must not be overlook'd,

That place was once esteem'd so great;

But Doctor Blackall now hath took'd

And holds it for his country seat.

I nearly recollect the time

When late Lord Ashburton lived there,

Then it was gay and in its prime,

But much decay'd of later years.

There's three dissenting chapels now,

Were builded long since I could mind,

All of such doings serve to show

What stirrings up the people find.

Another church on Leusden Down,

So neat and handsome doth appear;

A wealthy lady of renown

Hath been the means to get it there.

It hath been built of later years,

She still is living on the ground;

This liberality of hers

Is felt by many people round.

To the old churchyard next we come,

The resting place of all the dead,

Their bodies lying in the tomb,

From whom we know the spirit's fled.

I've many friends a-lying there,

Amongst the rest a tender wife;

The one whom I esteemed so dear

Was snatched from me in early life.

I hope my body will lie there,

When I have run my course below,

With many that I held so dear,

Great numbers whom I once did know.

The tower is a splendid one,

And is by very few excelled;

It's builded of fine granite stone,

A finer one I ne'er beheld.

The church is under a repair,

Its granite walls appear so strong;

That fine old fabric hath stood there

I, fro my part, can't say how long.

A dreadful thunder storm, we read,

Once fell upon that sacred place,

And on a Sabbath day it's said,

Which did the people much amaze.

In sixteen hundred thirty eight,

On the Lord's day at afternoon,

No one expecting such a sight,-

For so the record handed down.

The lightening and the thunder broke

While singing of the psalm they were;

We hear that awful sudden stroke

Spread death and devastation there.

While singing of the psalm they were,

This dire calamity befell;

Some were struck dead, and other there

Were scorched and struck insensible.

I find the Reverend George Lyde

Was vicar when that storm took place;

He pressed the people to abide,

And trust in God's protecting grace.

It seems that he possessed strong nerve,

And stood the shock so firm and brave,

He did not from his duty swerve,

But trusted in his God to save.