The Lord of Misrule

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!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Devanshu Rajput]

everytime i read your great pieces of poem...they always leave me to say great,fantastic,excellent...i think no writer would be able to write like you on this land...you wonderfully and effortlessly write poem...heed was much attracted towards your well-rhymed lines...my level would not be able to review your writing...

[Relic]

You are certainly a master of rhyme and story Lewis. You never fail to entertain with your words. This was another excellent poem and we are so fortunate to have you on this site. Bravo!

[Amadi Judith]

You are truly a poet with distinction. I respect this.

[JM Russell]

A master's work again. I love it.

[WhiteWillow]

A singular talent, you are.

[keyvan]

I just say this is amazing.....that is all.

[Pete Langley]

Worthy of your countryman, Banjo Patterson, Dave!
A true saga, well told with true originality. Scared the hell out of me!

[Jack Dawkins]

Wow, let me tell you that I enjoyed this immensely and you have to love a poem that educates as well as entertains. I thought for a moment that you misspelled Mohawk, because I come from the land of the mohawk, then I discover that there was a gang called the Mohocks that terrorized London in the 18th century. There was a bounty of 100 pounds put up for their capture. That would have been an enormous amount of money at that time, so they must have been bloody horrible. I wish I could sit around a campfire with a cold bottle of Fosters and hear all your tall tales.

[Chris]

Love it haha still trying to get warm

[.]

what a interesting poem fella............i liked it..the word;s u've used here are so smooth....their's so shine in ur's word;s.............carry-on ............
have a nice day fella........