The Lord Of Misrule Poem by David Lewis Paget

In the London of James
We ran wild in the parks,
Assaulted the toffs,
Ruled the streets after dark,
We slit many noses,
Ungirdled each wench,
And lifted their kirtles on
Many a park bench.

They called us the Mohocks
We rambled each street,
Tipped many a chair
On its side in the street,
Caused mayhem and riot
And ran with the sword,
Put pastors to pleas
On their knees to the Lord!

When Christmas, it came in
A quiver of white,
We’d shiver, and wander
The streets every night,
While citizens revelled,
Stayed home, rich and poor,
Heaped coals at the hearth,
Locked and bolted each door.

‘The fun has gone out of it, ’
Grumbled Long Will,
‘There’s no head to punch,
And no Doxie to spill,
The streets are quite empty
And quiet as the tomb,
There’ll be no glad rioting
This night, or soon! ’

So Bodger and Catchpenny,
Long Will and Gull,
Stood frowning at Patrick
Who scratched at his skull,
‘This time of the season
They’re playing the fool,
So let us join in with
The Lord of Misrule! ’

They stood up, delighted
And mad as a coot,
They capered and cantered
And Will played the flute,
Gull got him a Tabor and
Beat it with glee,
Destroyed all the silence
In disharmony!

While Patrick broke in to
An old Players Shoppe,
For Motley and nightsticks,
A barrel of Hock,
Then came out all dressed
As the veriest fool,
And bowed to us gently,
The Lord of Misrule!

We swaggered on down to the
Church in the Dell,
While Patrick had jangled
The hat with its bell,
Then led our procession
In riot, alas,
Right down to the altar
In time for High Mass.

The preacher looked grim
As he halted his prayer,
The whole congregation
Sat just as they were,
They knew of the Mohocks
And not one would rise,
At risk of the beating
They saw in our eyes.

The church was so ancient,
Lay under the Moon,
And barely three candles
Were lighting the gloom,
The tombs of Crusaders
Lay hallowed in there,
Each corner a knight,
And his lady, so fair!

So Patrick went up to
The altar, the fool,
Said: ‘I am your master,
The Lord of Misrule!
And you will go down
In your penance to me,
Or preacher, you’ll hang
From the mistletoe tree! ’

The preacher, he blustered,
The preacher, he fell,
The people, they scattered
Like hounds before hell,
The church was soon empty
And grim in the dark,
Then Gull became nervous –
‘It’s only a lark! ’

The doors slammed behind us
The candles went out,
The Crusader banners cast
Shadows of doubt,
And then came a creaking
Of time and old sin,
And something was moving
That shouldn’t have been!

The knights on their headstones
Had lurched to their feet,
Came lumbering on from
Their centuries sleep,
With shields at the ready and
Swords in the air,
They swung at our revels
Through Catchpenny’s hair.

I watched as poor Bodger
Was cleft at the front,
Before his head toppled,
Fell into the font,
While Will caught a thrust
From the next knight behind,
That sliced through his ribcage
And shattered his spine.

Then Gull I heard scream as
I raced for the door,
Flew in at the vestry
And hid on the floor,
The Preacher was nowhere,
He’d fled from the scene,
The moment the knights had
Creaked up from their dream!

When morning broke early
I slunk through the dawn,
Went back to my lodgings
And tried to get warm,
For outside the church, on the
Cross, like a fool,
And hanging in chains was
The Lord of Misrule!

25 October 2010