Florence Wyndham Her Ballad

A True Story

Fair Florence was of Wyndham wed
At Kentsford did she bide
In many a weather were she and Sir John happy together
In winter and at spring tide

Oh the sea mist creeps in o’er Watchet town
And out it creeps again
Strange things do hap when misty fingers tap
In the realm of ghosts and men

Now it came to pass that our fair lass
A child was she to bear
Jubilation did abound, in family, near and far around
At the glad news of an heir

St Decuman’s bells did peal, the village maidens did squeal
A son, an heir to us is born
A toast was raised, the lady well praised
Bright berries adorned the thorn

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

‘Twas late one eve when round and round did weave
Misty apparitions in the gloaming
At Florence’s boon did the maid knock at her room
… from within remarked she a faint moaning

A faint moaning did she hear, the maid thought it queer
In rushed she to the chamber pell-mell
There lay Florence a-bed, oh dread, alike to dead
What had indeed befell? 

What indeed had befell? As if struck by a devil out of hell 
Lay Florence all torn and tangled
‘My Lady is dead!’ shrieked the maid, clutching her head
‘Her body lies all worn and mangled!’

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

St. Dec’s bells did toll, did toll
The coffin lay on the bier
High and low did mourn, Sir John was all forlorn
And dolorous sang the choir

All dolorous sang the choir, the lady’s life fire
Now extinguished, lay all in ruins
In the nave of the church soon to be laid ‘neath holy turf
Was this to be an end to Florence and her lifely doings?

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

The congregation long gone, Sir John in his chamber undone
The coffin it lay before the altar
Deathly silence in the church, did a crow on the cross perch?
Hark – did a step there falter?

The church door squeaked, was it a devil in there peeked?
Or a shape conjured up out of mist and sea water? 
Mayhap an heavenly visitation – no, a groan of frustration:
‘Twas the sextant, come to rob the Wyndham’s fair daughter!

‘Twas the sextant, Tom Hole, with an intent unwhole
To steal the rings off the lady’s fingers
Guttering candle in hand, this crime had he planned
See how before the coffin he lingers

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

There lay fair Florence quite dead, her visage of colour bled
Richly gleamed her rings so bright 
He grabbed all he could, after all, was she not gone for good?
Turning, he made to take flight

Wait –  what caught his eye, on index finger did it lie?
The ruby ring whispered in his ear, ‘come, take me!’
He dragged at the finger, unwilling longer to linger
Up coiled the mist from the quay

Up coiled the mist from the quay it did
It writhed all round the nave
‘Take it!’ whispered the ghoul, ‘lest you be found a fool’
Far off soughed the sea wave

Far off soughed the sea wave, the sextant deprav’d
Drew a sharp knife from his belt
Sawed off the digit with which she would anyway ne’er fidget
What is this? Red blood dripped from the coffin where he knelt!

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

The red ruby glowed, the lady’s life’s blood again flowed
Bolt upright sat she thought long dead!
Screamed aloud in pain at the attempt her to main
Swivelled in the shroud her head!

Banged on the coffin his head, screaming out the door the sextant fled
And was ne’er more seen in the parish
The mist swallowed him whole, that knave Tom Hole
No-one knows whether he did live or did perish

The knave’s terrified squeals outdid the church peals
As down the hill he bolted 
In the mist fell he off the pill, for good, nay, for ill
All of Nature by his crime was revolted

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

On the morrow’s sad grey breakfasted the squire as he may
‘Knock knock’ there came on the pane
‘Twas Florence in the flesh, reprieved from a terrible death!
Sir John thought he was going insane

Sir John thought he was raving, he did
Rising he knocked over his chair
‘Tis my Florence as I love and live, may the Lord me forgive!’
Quoth he – ‘hark – over there

At doorlatch she fumbled, on the doorstep she crumpled
The servants were all a-feared
Sir John flung open the door – Florence lay sprawled on the floor
The morning mist, now retreating, made all weird

Oh ‘ware the sea mist when in it creeps
O’er Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

Retreated the sea mist, all Watchet got squiffed
At St Dec’s sounded glad peals
The Lady Florence was not dead, with child lay she abed!
The common folk were head over heels

Four-Fingered Florence further full forty years flourished
Her fame in all the land was extent 
She gave birth to a son, a most lovéd one
From whom all Wyndhams claim their descent

And up to this day Wyndhams are not buried straight away
But left instead three days before the altar to languish
So that dead tho’ they seem, to be so they are not deem’d
Till genuinely from this earthly realm are judged banished

My tale is finished, the Lady Florence undiminished
Below gleams Watchet around her harbour
But, hark! Do round and about wreathe in and out
Tendrils of sea mist at St Dec’s in this green arbour?

Oh ‘ware the mist when in it creeps, o’er all it sweeps
In Watchet on the sea!
‘Ware the sea mist, when e’er it doth twist 
For safe are neither the low-born nor the lordly!

Here Be an End to Florence Wyndham Her Ballad

Ralph Hoyte (2024)