The southwest tower is haunted by a skeletal horse. Few people see it, but at sunset, you might hear it sing.
As I was riding to Banbury Cross,
Lazily lilting of lovers in loss,
Out swept a seeress who sneered down her nose:
“He shall have music wherever he goes.”
As I was riding to Banbury Square,
Twined in a tribute to tumbledown hair,
Out skipped a maid: “Are you singing for me?”
Studied and sober, I stared at the sea.
As I went riding to Banbury Street,
Rhyming a romance with riddles replete,
Out slouched a spinster: “Perchance it’s my day?”
Crabbed and confounded, I cursed the delay.
As I was riding to Banbury Lane,
Poignantly piping of passion and pain,
Out shuffed a widow: “Can you see his face?”
Piqued and impatient, I parted apace.
As I went riding to Banbury Road,
Wide by the wayside that wisdom bestowed,
Out rose a hymn: Every rapturous word
Rang through the alleyway. Nobody heard.