Oh but what a queer name it is,
Tell me O old Baba, how it came to be?
 
They say, my son, as you see –
Atop that little mound, up there lived
one fine Mr. Burton, back in eighteen eighty-eight
of unusually pompous demeanor
and a smug yet sprightly bouncing gait.
 
He would emerge out with his cane
yet never be so cruel as to cast upon it his weight.
He would light his pipe at the precipice,
overlooking our village as if in wait,
and then just retire to his Bungalow,
having performed this rite for twenty years straight.
 
But who was Mr. Burton?
What kind of man was he?
 
They say my son, that they don’t know –
Mr. Burton would descend twice a year
to replenish his stocks of tobacco.
The humble seller christened
and caused it to eightfold grow –
his shop “Burton-Tambacoo”...
 
It’s not as if our old men took fancy
to set apart ours from the neighbouring towns;
After all Bartan means crockery
and that’s how it sounds when we say it in ups and downs.
 
Burton would have been a good man,
for a good village was named after him.
What did he do we know not,
but that’s how this name have we got.