Old Henry built it with his own hands,

harvested the wood from his own lands.

He dug the well and laid the stone

and worked real hard to make it his own.

 

Henry plowed the fields and tilled the soil,

but he never complained of all the toil,

cause the land gave back fore it took away

and he counted his blessings every day.

 

The years went by and Henry took a wife

and she stayed with him nearly all her life,

gave him a daughter, but no son,

and she died when the child was only one.

 

Old Henry’s secrets were not revealed

as he worked the land, every inch of field

and he shared the bounty of his pride.

Many folk were there when the old man died.

 

There were five generations of Henry’s kin,

each one with a story of their old friend,

but the one who really knew him well

had a secret that she’d never tell.

 

Many years have passed since Old Henry stood

on the mountain side where he cut that wood

and the house still sits on the land he praised,

but the roof now sags where it once was raised.

 

Now Henry’s gone and his child is too,

yet you’ll  hear her wail in the residue

of the walls that kept her hidden well.

Henry’s secret’s gone, but the house will tell.

 

There are ghosts inside of the old homestead

for they will not rest till the truth is said,

but the one who knows all the secrets well

swore to Old Henry she’d never tell.

 

On the hill, near the house, where four stones rest,

one epitaph reveals it best,

“Here lies the soul of Henry’s kin,

born of his immoral sin.”

 

Folks pass this place where Henry’s laid

and they wonder bout that other grave,

still the land gives back fore it takes away,

and they’ll figure out the truth one day.

 

No name was on the fourth granite stone,

and folks n’er knew this was his own,

till they perceived Henry’s evil deed;

child of his incestuous seed.

 

Susan J.