The Hermit Monk

An oke doth stand on Pilgrim Hill
And a secret it doest conceal
For within its dark, hollow trunk
Dwells an old fusty hermit monk

A humble abode, yet wise he be
Preserving space in a meanly tree
With muchness within to explore
But one must first realise the door

His cherished home hath been this oke
For many a yeer, encaved from folk
Only by night doth he wend out
To gudgeon for eels and salmon troute

So, if thou venture to that Pilgrim Hill
In the dead of night, seek the river Rill
With a dram of luck and a hand from God
Thou mayst espy a monk with a fishing rod