In days of Anne, this desolate inn,
Is where our story shall begin.
High upon deserted moor,
Strange goings-on attract the law.

Dispatched one day to apprehend,
‘Twas there the sheriff met his end.
Shot stone dead by smuggling gang,
If news gets out, they’d surely hang.

Buried there, beneath the trees,
The restless lawman yearns for peace.
And rumour has that each full moon,
Our ghost returns to guard saloon.

Today we’re knowing brighter times,
The inn still stands, no hint of past crimes.
And still today, it offers beds,
Where weary tourists rest their heads.

He pulls them in, our aged ghost,
A history which the inn can boast.
An apparition most bizarre,
A shadow standing at the bar.

All hocus pocus, we all might think,
As thirsty patrons sip their drink.
But tell me, if you have your doubt,
What force just blew this candle out

Queen Anne reigned in the UK between 1707 and 1714. I was thinking along the lines of Jamaica Inn, high on Bodmin Moor and made famous by Daphne du Maurier, when I wrote this, although it could be anywhere. The High Corner Inn is near to me and would fit the bill nicely.