The Church Of Wenslow Haze Poem by David Lewis Paget

The sea that batters the eastern coast
Has often subdued the land,
Five hundred years have seen the retreat
Of a mile of cliffs and sand,
When tides are low in the summertime
From beneath the distant swell,
The villagers lying abed at night
Hear the tolling of a bell.

The bell resounds up the village street
And rattles the cobblestones,
As the villagers close the shutters tight
And lock the doors of their homes,
They hear the thump of a wooden stump
As it echoes along the street,
The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg
From Drake's Armada Fleet!

The thump is steady and purposeful
As it heads towards the sea,
Where the bell still rings for matins
As in 1563,
When priests were burned for popery
In the England of those days,
They used the little singing cakes
In the Church of Wenslow Haze!

John Clegg was a surly protestant
In the service of the Queen,
So the use of the cakes for massing bread -
He thought it was quite obscene!
The vicar had leant to the Roman Church,
The Reverend Walter Raise,
And Clegg had stood and harangued him there
In the Church of Wenslow Haze.

‘You'll bring your Popish habits here
At the risk of mortal pain,
I fought for the Queen Elizabeth
To see off the King of Spain,
If you don't revert to the massing bread
And the Book of Common Prayer,
I'll see to the piling of faggots
When they burn you in the square! '

But Walter Raise would never be stayed
By the threats of an ignorant tar,
He said: ‘I only answer to God
For the what and the where we are!
The form is not as important as
The salving of the soul,
You'd better look to your own before
The Devil takes you all! '

But Clegg had waited for matins, he
Returned with a burning brand,
Set fire to the ancient tapestries
The pews and the altar stand,
He raised his cutlass and brought it down
On the Romish vicar's head,
And he cursed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As the vicar lay there, dead!

The sea rose up in a sudden storm
And it swept across the land,
Engulfed the Church of Wenslow Haze
As if raised by God's own hand,
The land had tilted beneath the sea
And the church, it settled deep,
With the bodies of Clegg and Walter Raise
And the bell-tower, and the keep!

So now when the tide repents and drops
To a fathom, over the bell,
The toll rings out from the surly deep
Like a call to the fiends from hell,
And a stump sounds over the cobblestones
As Clegg, for his soul's sake pays,
He carries a burning fire brand
To the Church of Wenslow Haze.

29 July,2012