Colin F. Jones

~ Spondon Bells ~
OUTLAWS OF DEVASES

Beneath the towering oaks,
Over the grey stone walls,
Across the lush green fields,
They sped to Devases call.

With the echo of a joyful yell,
The twang of a Yew bow’s string,
With the clash of cane on cane,
They sped like a dobber’s sling.

Soon the moss was damp beneath,
And draped in crumpling bricks,
The Silver Birch was the meeting spot,
For the battle of stones and sticks.

The lofty oaks and sycamores,
And the brambles thick and thin,
Leaves and grass and undergrowth,
Where one could hide within!

The limbs of trees are refuge,
Over the woodland path below,
Where the seekers track the hunted,
With many a loaded bow.

Beside the pond the big trunks,
Hollow for a need,
Across the way was the fort-like barn,
A sight to hasten speed.

Ah! Yonder stands old Big Monk,
Gigantic unconquered yet,
Further down stands Little Monk,
Halfway the highest bet.

But hark!! The call has sounded!
Where the woods are deeper,
They flee! Towards the gates they flee!
For comes Devases keeper!

Ah!! Those gates! Those wooden gates,
So strong they tower high,
But fast he comes, fast comes the keeper!!
They storm towards the sky!

Atop and down with nimble speed,
What gate could bar their way,
Along Park Road, a frantic charge,
‘Til they were far away.