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Category Archives: Guy Fawkes

The Gun Powder Plot Poem

 

Some twelve months ago,
An hundred or so,
The Pope went to visit the devil;
And as, you will find,
Old Nick, to a friend,
Can behave himself wondrous civil.

Quoth the De’il to the Seer,
What the De’il brought you her
It was surely some whimsical maggot:
Come, draw to the fire;
Nay, prithee, sit nigher:
Heree, sirrah! lay on t’other faggot.

You’re welcome to Hell;
I hope friends are well,
At Pareis, Madrid, and at Rome;
And ,now you elope,
I suppose, my dear Pope,
The conclave will hang out the broom.

Then his Holiness cry’d,
All jesting aside,
“Give the Pope and the Devil their dues;”
For, believe me, Old Dad,
I’ll make thy heart glad,
For, by Jove, I do bring thee rare news.

There’s a plot to beguile
An obstinate isle;
Great Britain, that heretic nation,
Who so shyly behav’d,
In the hopes of being sav’d
By the help of a d . . d Reformation.

We’ll never have done,
If we burn one by one,
Tis’ such a d . . d numerous race!
For no sooner one’s dead,
Like the fam’d Hydra’s head,
Than a dozen spring up in his place.

But, believe me, Old Nick,
We’ll play them a trick,
The like was ne’er hatched in France;
For this day before dinner,
As sure’s I’m a sinner,
We’ll burn all the rascals at onece.

When the king with his son
To the parliament’s gone,
To consult about old musty papers,
We’ll give them a greeting,
Shall break up their meeting,
And try who can cut the best capers.

There’s powder enough,
And combustible stuff,
Inf fifty and odd trusty barrels,
Which will blow all together,
The Devil cares whither,
And decide at one blow all our quarrels.

But this was scarce said,
When in popp’d the head
Of an old Jesuitical Wight,
Who cry’d You’re mistaken,
They’ve all saav’d their bacon,
And Jemmy still stinks with the fright.

Then Satan was struck,
And said ’tis bad luck,
But you for your news shall be thanked:
So he call’d to the door
Seven devils or more,
And they toss’d the poor dog in a blanket.

Watts, Isaac, Horae lyricae. Poems, By I. London, 1706

WICKED – Promote Yourself

 baxter106
A wicked gale, 1841,
Took all souls, both old and young.
Among the shipwrecks off the Cape,
No sadder story leaves mouths agape.
Seven ships were swept like splintered trees as
Sailors fought the rising seas.
Fifty-seven lads left that cursed day,
From Truro Harbor through Cape Cod Bay.
With farewells to families and prayers of thanks,
To fish for cod along George’s Banks.
Headed nor ‘east at full sail,
The hopefuls met that dreaded gale.
Soundings dropped as winds blew wild,
And fear spread from man to child.
For closer their vessels approached the shoals,
Which cut their hulls with ripping rolls,
Nature took victims without remorse,
And most were lost who’d set the course.
Legend has it that on autumn nights,
Amidst Truro’s moors, below the heights,
Ghosts of sailors mourn their ghastly plight,
With frightful wails across the night.
So if you dare to brace that wicked wind,
You may hear cries of those doomed kin,
Brothers of the sea who dared to go,
Where others still venture and fight the foe.
Wendy Shreve
(In honor of All Hallows’ Eve and those spirits who are still with us)
NOTE: This poem is based in part on real events off Truro, MA in 1841 (Source: Provincetown Banner, June 28, 2009). The legend is fiction.

The Hag – YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

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The Hag is astride,
    This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
    Through thick, and through thin,
    Now out, and then in,

 Thorn or a Burr
    She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
    Through Brakes and through Bryars,
    O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

    No Beast, for his food,
    Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
    While mischiefs, by these,
    On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

    The storme will arise,
    And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
    The ghost from the Tomb
    Affrighted shall come,

A Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

    

Robert Herrick (1648)

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM SENT IN BY YOU WHAT’S YOURS

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