Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob, br Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he br Loved horses. He himself was like a cob br And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree. br br For the life in them he loved most living things, br But a tree chiefly. All along the lane br He planted elms where now the stormcock sings br That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train. br br Till then the track had never had a name br For all its thicket and the nightingales br That should have earned it. No one was to blame br To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails. br br Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now br None passes there because the mist and the rain br Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough br And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.