I HAVE just come back from a stroll round the Mesne (the playing field on Primrose Hill, Lydney).

Instead of pausing to enjoy the lovely view of the town and the River Severn, in the wintry afternoon sunshine, I stood horrified, dismayed and aghast, looking at the terrible damage and despoiling of our local amenity by the boar.

I came straight home and wrote the following (to be sung to the tune of John Brown's Body).

They're a-rooting, they're a-trampling,

they're a-digging up the ground.

There will soon be nowhere in the forest

where they can't be found.

There are heaps of mud and ruined turf

and chaos everywhere,

as they go trotting on.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya,

as you go trotting on.

They're a-breeding, they're a-feeding

they're annoying lots of folk.

If we have to pay for fencing

we will soon be all quite broke.

I could shoot the bloke who set them free

It really isn't fair,

'cos they go trotting on.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya.

Boary, boary, we sure rue ya,

as you go trotting on.

– Christine Worthy, Lydney.