I have never been to Newbiggin

Although I’ve seen it on the map and know its name.

Yet I have never been to Newbiggin

Although I’ve seen the sign that points there down the lane.

But I have never been to Newbiggin

Although I’ve seen it stretched out there, across the dale,

Its houses strung like pearls, squat stone

All yellow-grey along the single street.

And I have never been to Newbiggin

Though I have passed that way, at least once every year.

And still I fear that I will never go or ask

To see that hamlet deep in Bishopdale

Where, buried, lies a little of my past

For Newbiggin and Thoralby and Bishopdale

Homed long ago my forbears, birth to grave,

Where generations lived and died

And never left that spot, that such small place.

But though I’ve never been to Newbiggin,

I’ll take some part of Newbiggin with me for those

Who only knew of Newbiggin and nowhere else

And thus I’ll let those silent sleepers see the world.