Friday, 5 November 2010

Seasonal Prose

As it is bonfire night/ firework night/ guy fawkes night, I thought I'd share with you a few poems. The first is a more historical work, whilst the last two are fun little rhymes. I hope you enjoy them, and have a fun but safe night.
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

The next two are written by children, taken from
Fireworks bang
Bonfire sizzle
Laughter breaks through
A November drizzle
Sparklers burn down
Right down to the core
A sound of disappointment
But wait there is more
The fireworks ended
It’s time to go now
As the people hustle and bustle
In my head it’s still wow
Bonfire Night Poem

Look at the big Rocket, Mother,
Leaving burning, fairy flowers
Showering from the skies.

Watch the Roman Candle, Mother,
See it shoot and spark,
Why! There's fiery, golden rain,
Patterns in the dark.

Catherine Wheel, Oh, Catherine Wheel,
I love to see you spin,
Look at all the magic fire
Circling round the pin!

The sky is full of trees, Mother,
See their blossoms shake,
Painting all the dreaming air
Like a Magic Lake.

Oh, now look at the sad, old Guy,
He's very nearly gone,
His hat has toppled over,
But still he blazes on.

The Fireworks have all ended, Mother,
The Bonfire's nearly done;
But weren't the colours bright, Mother?
Didn't we have fun?

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