Bold Prince Bishop's Men by Giles Watson's poetry and prose

<b>Picture: Mediaeval bishop's crosier, Ashmolean museum (currently undated).</b> Some of the first song lyrics I ever wrote, dating from student days in Durham, are below. None of the opinions expressed are my own: they are in the voice of an imaginary minstrel employed by the Prince Bishop's Men. <b>Bold Prince Bishop’s Men</b> We build like gods, we feed like dogs Like angels glorious, badgers malodorous Generous and gentle-hearted Worshipful of the departed Bereft of mercy for our foes Brave where our blazoned banner goes: Make way, make way, we prithee then For all the bold Prince Bishop’s men! Fasting, scourgéd and abased Proud like peacocks, gentle-faced By turns haughty, by turns humble Ready for a rough and tumble Our host all cowardice overthrows Brave where our blazoned banner goes: Make way, make way, we prithee then For all the bold Prince Bishop’s men! <b>Cuthbert’s Cross</b> A monk in exile once again, Driven on by axe of Dane. In sleep I lie beside the Wear And I am wrung of every tear. O! Cuthbert! Oswald! Come! Arise! O! Fill the night with fireflies! In hills of Lothian Cuthbert stands, Shepherd’s crook held in his hands. His flock about him bleat and cry While tearful monks watch Aidan die: Cuthbert sees him mount the skies; The dark night burns with fireflies. Crook laid down, good Cuthbert goes Before the Prior of Melrose. The Prior trembles, overawed, “Behold the Spirit of the Lord!” Angelic Cuthbert stills his cries; His eyes burn soft like fireflies. Cuthbert with consumption wracked - Yet with blessed wit and tact He bids the storm at Whitby calm, And shepherds monks at Lindisfarne, Then on a hermit island lies. And all around burn fireflies. A humble shelter builds he there; With crow and eagle does he share His simple fare amid the squalls, Then sleeps within his rough-hewn walls. He contemplates the Northern skies: The stars aglow like fireflies. To Holy Island he returns As Bishop, tho’ the pomp he spurns: No armies at his footstool stand, No servants waiting at his hand. No glory and no false disguise For saints aglow like fireflies. Yet for his island Cuthbert yearns, Where the sea swell torrid churns. His fretful flock behold him float Away inside a cockle-boat. They fill the air with moans and sighs; Their tears burn like fireflies. One disciple, gaunt with concern, Cries, “Cuthbert! When wilt thou return?” “O! When you bring my body hither, For all flesh must wilt and wither!” His body frail, yet still his eyes Burn in the dark like fireflies. The waves lash the little shore; The monks’ fond hopes arise no more. The pulse of Cuthbert soon will cease, His dying breath now urges peace. In pain his broken body writhes, Yet burns his breath like fireflies: “Bear me with thee where ye go! Let not hail, storm nor snow Prevent you when destruction’s near! Banish sadness! Banish fear!” Consumed at last, St. Cuthbert dies With the winking-out of fireflies. On Lindisfarne they wait forlorn For some sign, or shout, or horn: Then with the death, burning soft Comes light of torches held aloft! Above the ground where Cuthbert lies The torches burn like fireflies. His cross of garnets and of gold Is laid upon his body cold. Twice broken was it, twice repaired, And now its memory is shared: The Cross exalted in our eyes - Its garnets burn like fireflies! His corp’rax bears the self-same sign, And so the priests of Cuthbert’s line Elevate the holy Host And in the Cross of Cuthbert boast, And at each Mass like myriad eyes The candles burn like fireflies. And now I dream on banks of Wear Exhausted, driven hence by fear: “Build my Church upon this rock And bring all St. Cuthbert’s flock! Let the might of Dunholme rise: The dark night burns with fireflies!” <b>Flambard</b> Wide the Wear winds its course, Past Dunholme on both sides, Young Flambard on a chestnut horse Through the woodland rides. He sees the vision glorious: The might of stone on stone! May Dunholme’s tower victorious For Flambard’s sins atone! (Chorus:) Profuse and profligate, contemptuous of all, Roguish and greedy, handsome, full of guile, Vulgar in religion, broad and strong and tall, Flambard’s fortitude and fame waxes all the while! Known for prodigality, wanting in morality, Not given to frugality,of dubious legality, All praise to Flambard, Bishop Prince, Mainspring of iniquity! Great Dunholme’s robust transepts rise Astride the soaring choir. Beneath the pallid northern skies The walls mount ever higher. Across the Wear a bridge is flung, The masons’ chisels ringing. Down the nave the vaults are slung The choir fills with singing. Flambard feeds his architects On venison and boar, The city’s walls he now erects For archers by the score. Along the high peninsula The oxen haul the stone, All critics snide or insular By Flambard overthrown. Cuthbert’s body incorrupt: Enshrined in marble cold A score of jewellers now construct Reliquaries of gold. Wond’rous images and jewels Bedeck the abbey’s walls Still the schemes of prudes and fools Shrewd Flambard oft forestalls. The sceptics are confounded - The abbey’s all but built And Cuthbert’s tomb surrounded By crusts of stones and gilt. The pilgrims hasten to adore And seek St. Cuthbert’s will. They bring their silver coins galore And Flambard’s coffers fill. Flambard dies, his goods endowed: Griffins adorn his cope Two more sewn with peacocks proud, A silver censer from the Pope, Tapestries in richest hue, Silken, every stitch, And crosses made of lapis blue Flambard’s church enrich. Now his seals are broken all On Cuthbert’s tomb they lie, Proof that all the mighty fall, And all the great must die. Yet Flambard’s voice will never rest Though he is dust and bone, “I built this church! My name’s impressed On Dunholme’s every stone!” Profuse and profligate, contemptuous of all, Roguish and greedy, handsome, full of guile, Vulgar in religion, broad and strong and tall, Flambard’s fortitude and fame waxes all the while! Known for prodigality, wanting in morality, Not given to frugality,of dubious legality, All praise to Flambard, Bishop Prince, Mainspring of iniquity! <b>Anthony Bek</b> Splendid and dangerous Anthony Bek Gentry stand by thee, bare to the neck Nobles address thee, on bended knee all - Above them you tower, stalwart and tall. Chorus: In a Church grown cold, this Bishop seems A hero to be desired For the world was young and hearty then; Now ‘tis old and tired. One hundred and forty knights follow your train O! Such magnificence! O! to regain The pomp of the Bishop Prince, Bek most adored O! To be blessed by the hilt of his sword! Never luxurious, not soft nor idle Never apart from his saddle and bridle Bold Bek delighteth in horse and in hound No equal in England will ever be found. In courage unparallelled, brazen and brave, Spirit of Bishop Bek, hear us and save: Our banner’s defiled, answer you must St. Cuthbert’s honour is trampled in dust. <b>Neville’s Cross</b> Laudate pueri Dominum: laudate nomen Domini. Dunholme standeth, mist enshrouded: solid stand her towers. The monks sing prime, incense-clouded, while the pale sun glowers. John Fossor swooneth in his stall, by bright vision blinded, He hears the clear, climactic call, of Cuthbert reminded. King David, sneering weasel Scot Comes to suck the English eggs His troops the northern landscape blot, Each town for mercy begs. King Edward draws the sword in France, Leaves all exposed at home; The weasel chooses to advance On fortified Dunholme. “John Fossor, man of fortitude, take holy Cuthbert’s Cross. All other schemes shalt thou exclude, yet Cuthbert’s sign emboss Upon a blazoned banner blue, haul it to yonder hill. Beseech me ‘til the battle’s through, that I might work my will!” Bold Hatfield and three Bishops brave Ride hard on Neville’s Cross, The priests bear cudgels for to save Dunholme from direst loss. The weasel writhes in wrathful glee, “A corps of priest and wench? I’ll fill hill and field and lee With their rotting bodies’ stench!” John Fossor takes the corp’rax cloth, imprints on bluest banner Emblem of faith, fear and wrath, while outside the clamour Builds beneath embattled walls. Then marches Fossor north; “Behold the Banner!” Fossor calls, the cloister’d monks come forth. The weasel wafts his hungry sword His minions round him creep, “Where is your King and noble Lord, A-whoring, or asleep?” “Fear not!” retorts the bold Hatfield, “Our King fights fiercer wars! And if you think our fate is sealed, I prithee! Look to yours!” The banner flies above Flass Vale, the monks intone the Mass Concealed in cowls their faces pale, they blench not as they pass About the hallowed, fractured Host, and raise the Cup of blood, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost, ankle-deep in mud. The wily weasel bares his fangs, Lethal in the melee. The battle in the balance hangs, The blood runs fast and free. “I absolve thee!” cry the priests, With their cudgels clubbing, “Then die beknighted!” cry the Scots With bloodstained broadswords dubbing. The monks pray on, by blood bespattered, carnage covers all the hill The clashing armies’ banners tattered, yet Cuthbert’s Cross flies still. And from Dunholme’s distant tower, more monks watching, waiting, While bells toll for each passing hour, still the battle’s raging. Bold Edward Balliol spurs his steed Into the weasel’s weakened flank, The weasel’s wounds weep and bleed, His bloodstained hair hangs lank. “Thou weasel Scot, surrender now!” One plucky squire is crying, The weasel bends as if to bow, Then sends the squire’s teeth flying. “Gentle Cuthbert, ever blessed, receive our plaintive prayer We stand shriven, sins confesséd, sworn to Our Lady fair! Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, Thine honour be exalted! Let not Dunholme be undone, by Scottish foes assaulted!” King David picks the teeth and skin From his gauntlet gory, “Curséd be thy craven kin! Disgracéd be thy glory! Man and horse he hews to ground, His sword cleaves skin and bone, Until at last he’s lashed and bound Fast by a cross of stone. The banner flieth o’er the field, monks in triumph chanting And in the mud the bood congealed, weasel widly ranting. “Behold! The Banner!” cheers resound, “An end to wrath and wrong!” From Dunholme’s tower the tidings sound, echoéd in plainsong: Te deum laudamus: te dominum confitemur. Te, aeternum patrum, omnis terra veneratur. Tibi omnes angeli, tibi caeli et universae potestates, Tibi cherubim et seraphim, incessabili voce proclamat, Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, dominus deus sabaoth; Pleni sunt caeli et terra maiestatis gloriae tuae. <b>Tunstall</b> Outmoded saint in newfangled world Tunstall sits with bright banner furled, In Auckland Castle, mouthing his prayers. His messenger falters on the stairs. Copernicus calibrates the sky, Leonardo draws machines that fly, Luther hammers upon the Church door, The King wants gold to support his wars. And so the officials of the State Ride forth to the Palatinate, Appraise his ledgers and all his gold And Tunstall’s saintly soul is sold. Finchale falls and its Prior marries. The greedy King no longer tarries: All trash and trumpery swept away, No sweet-toned bells, no banners gay. Holy Tunstall, blessed impotence, In arms untutored, slow to offense, Let a Bek or Fossor take the stage! Save sanctity for a softer age! <b>Jane Lumley</b> In your arms I rested yesternight Warmth and strength my soul surrounding We made love in pale moonlight Your skin was soft, my heart was pounding. George Lumley, husband, lover, friend: At dawn you ride off to your end. I pleaded, “Let me ride with you And bear Cuthbert’s banner bright!” Resplendent in your tabard blue My tears welled forth at the sight. George Lumley, I caress your face Before the Pilgrimage of Grace. Bulmer, Hilton, Tempest, Aske Take arms against a King turned foe, Staunch and steeléd for the task And I collapse in helpless woe. George Lumley, chain-mailed on your steed, Sword unsheathed in hour of need. Bright at dawn the beacons glow, The relics are brought forth. The monks tramp onward through the snow With bold horsemen of the north. George Lumley, may their prayers prevail As you ride on through wind and hail. From Doncaster come tidings ill You rode in triumph to the south But the King with stealth and skill Deceives with honey in his mouth. George Lumley by deceit delayed By our King is sore betrayed. My husband mounts the scaffold cold, The axeman plies his blade, The King counts out my husband’s gold, The banner falls, the war-cries fade. George Lumley, would I shared your ending, Our blood upon the scaffold blending. “Wife Jane Lumley,” so my husband’s will, “May I behold once more your face! With thirty Requiems Dunholme fill, Exalt the Pilgrimage of Grace! Jane Lumley, O! that I may rest My head once more upon your breast!” His body wrap in shroud of blue, His cold feet kiss, his face anoint, His armour cleanse and shine anew His bright sword sharpen at its point. On Lumley’s grave, Fili Dei Deus miserere mei. <b>Dies irae</b> The Duke of Norfolk’s retinue In Dunholme Castle, eating stew, Making merry, guzzling wine, Despoil the Bishop’s fabrics fine. Norfolk, puppet of the Crown Takes Tunstall’s seal and wears his gown Sends Lady Bulmer to the pyre And orders executions dire. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” In March, when Cuthbert’s name’s revered And Dunholme’s aisles are cleansed and cleared, The Prior, dressed in cope of gold, Takes up the Banner, as of old - Then the King sends lackeys, thugs Dressed in silks and ermine rugs, They slap the Prior in the face, Bully his monks with sword and mace. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” They march unheeding through the choir, Instruments of Henry’s ire, The candles from the altar strip, The priestly vestments cruelly rip And to Cuthbert’s shrine they trudge, Bearing Henry’s impious grudge, Cuthbert’s corpse they now exhume, And sneering, desecrate his tomb. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” The alabaster, jewels and gold - All are pilfered, smashed or sold, And Cuthbert’s banner, flag of war, Is wrapped in rags and seen no more Until Dean Whittington’s dowdy wife Cuts through the rags with carving-knife Strips away the hessian hoary And rips to shreds St. Cuthbert’s glory. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” St. Cuthbert’s Banner finds its pyre Tossed upon the kitchen fire By Whittington’s Genevan crone - The ensign which once stood alone At Neville’s Cross, with Scotland routed, With which the Bishops bold had flouted The words of kings and earthly powers - This Banner now the flame devours. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” Awash with incandescent flame The flag of the Prince Bishops’ fame And Cuthbert’s Cross burns to ash Beneath the mutton, beans and mash Broiling on the Dean’s wife’s grille. And Dunholme stands deserted, still: No monkish prayer pleads and atones For Cuthbert’s broken, rifled bones. Dunholme’s pillars wrathful quake, Cadavers in the crypt do shake, John Fossor’s teeth are set on edge, The very walls cry, “Sacrilege!” Confutatis maledictis flammis acribus addictis, voca me cum benedictis. Oro supplex et acclinis, cor contritum quasi cinis, gere curam mei finis... cor contritum quasi cinis gere curam mei finis. <b>Song lyrics by Giles Watson, inspired and sometimes adapted from Sir Timothy Eden's two volume history, <i>Durham</i>, 1952.</b>