William de Meschines and wife had happiness unbounded
(So legend states) in wedded life, and they a Priory founded,
'Twas four miles west of Bolton Bridge–around it had no
rival,
For four and thirty years it stood the test of its survival.
And then the daughter Alice, who inherited their wealth,
Erected Bolton Abbey, and the building grew by stealth,
And when 'twas finished – lo, it stood a thing of joy and
bliss,
And (so 'tis said) supplanted, soon, the humbler edifice.
A romance has been woven, and, 'tis said, the building rose
In memory of a tragedy, for local legend shows
That Alice, at her parents' death, herself a happy wife,
Was blessed with two fine bonny lads, the sunshine of her life.
'Twas later (in her widowhood) she lost the elder son,
And all her hopes were centred, now, upon the younger one,
He grew in grace, and comfort brought the widow's lonely heart,
Who had no premonition they were fated, soon, to part.
One day the boy was hunting, and, on leash, he had his hound,
Across the Strid he made a spring, to clear it at a bound,
The greyhound checked him in his leap, the rocks were steep,
and so
The lad was quickly drowned down in the swollen stream below.
And when to his fond mother they the dreadful tidings broke,
She sat for long in silence, and at length, in grief, she
spoke,
Her words were "On the Field of Wharfe, in Bolton, let
there be,
In memory of this broken heart, a stately priory."
And so fair Bolton Abbey rose, it's said, to mark that day,
It may be truth, it may be simply legend, who can say ?
But still the Abbey rums stand, of former state the sign,
And writers oft have told the tale with abler pens than mine.
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