Bats in the Belfry

The Church Belfry at Catherine Cross

Was known for its ancient bells,

They’d peal on out before Sunday Mass

And wake the monks in their cells,

The bellringers were a hardy crew

And their timing was superb,

But Joe and John, they didn’t get on,

And nor did the Bellman, Herb.

 

For Herb worked up in the belfry, with

The bells that he thought were his,

He’d tend the stock and the clapper stays

So the clapper wouldn’t miss,

He’d set each rope to the ringer’s height

To a fraction of an inch,

And woe betide if a ringer died,

Or another called in sick.

 

He’d call on down to the bellringers,

‘Go easy on those ropes,

You wouldn’t want to be stretching them,

They’re after all, the Pope’s!’

But John would glare at his form up there

And call up, between spells,

‘Don’t interfere with our work down here,

It’s we who ring the bells!’

 

He’d do his best to unsettle Herb

Would leave him in the lurch,

Then try, by ringing the tenor bell

To knock him off his perch,

The bell weighed upwards of three long tons

Would leave John out of breath,

But over time with its endless chime

Herb was going deaf.

 

Then Herb would leap from the belfry stair

And knock John to the ground,

The bells would ring out of sequence then

And make a terrible sound,

And while they struggled and punched and swore

The villagers would smirk,

‘That’s Herb and John got a punch-up on,

That Herb is a piece of work!’

 

So John had gone to the Synod, asked

That the Bellman should be sacked,

‘There’s nothing he needs to do up there,

I’m sick of being attacked.’

And so the word was carried to Herb

That their need of him was done,

Gave him a week to collect his things

And then, he must be gone.

 

His final Mass at Catherine Cross

Herb clambered up in the tower,

He’d show them all in his hour of loss

He’d have John in his power,

He loosened the nut that held the bell

To the headstock, up above,

And as it rang with a mighty clang

He gave it a final shove.

 

Then John strode into the centre, cursing

Looking up at the bell,

But what he saw would forever haunt him

Like some scene from Hell,

The bell was hurtling down towards him

Herb astride the crown,

His eyes a-gleam with revenge, it seemed

As the mighty bell came down.

 

Herb is buried at Catherine Cross

Not far from the place he fell,

While John was trapped for three long days

Under the dome of the bell,

It took the arm of a crane to lift

And set John free from his pain,

But from then on it was ‘Crazy John’

For he clambered out insane!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Foxemerald]

The most remarkable sense of style! Your stories have a distinct talent that delights, and make me question my life- is there blood in my veins? Perhaps I will know once the story is finished, but until then, your words entrance me with happy fright- and a cup filled with my pleasure! Lovely piece.

[TPK Stories]

Another great story...the ending was superb...

[Cory Barrett]

David you may have most unique voice on this entire site. Always love reading you work

[Marie]

A wonderful story indeed. I couldn't help thinking of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame", of course. (Disney's version would never have done anything that terrible.)

[Woody]

another funny story in your beautiful and unique verse, David. while reading the poem, can can't help seeing the drama unfold with one's mind's eye. Herb riding the dome is priceless. something out of Disney world.

[Tate Morgan]

This one tale is great . Nothing like a little revenge serve uo hot and loud.This stanza stands out like no other in recent times a masterpiece of rhyme and meter

He’d set each rope to the ringer’s height
To a fraction of an inch,
And woe betide if a ringer died,
Or another called in sick.