Up on the hill
In the posh areas
Where the Victorian villas
Were set back from tree lined roads,
The gas lamps in the streets were
Wrought iron, carved and elegant.
The lampleerie would open them
And light each lamp
One by one.
As each glowed with a warm soft light
They seemed like necklaces;
Shining jewels beading
Their way around the night.
Down near the docks
The tenements were dark and dank.
Their closes shadowed
With children's ghostly fears.
But every night at twilight
Our leerie came down from the hill.
With his long pole
He stretched up, turned on the taps.
Spluttering flames first blue
Then coming to brilliant life,
Spreading wide arcs of welcoming light.
And all our  bogeymen took flight.