The Ballad of Guy's Cliffe

Here where the River Avon bends
by weir and wheel and well
the damsel and the dragonfly
weave tales in air to tell

those legends of the fair Felice
and of her suitor Guy
who slew the beast of Dunsmore Heath
to win his lady’s eye.

The day they wed, this earth that sleeps
below Old Milverton
bore witness to their coupling
and blessed them with a son.

Such joy was theirs, such happiness
until their son was lost,
then ground grew hard and fields of corn
froze silently in frost.

Guy’s anger chased the infidel
but war was never won;
battles bore, dead bodies wore
the death mask of his son.

When he came back to Warwick’s gate,
a palmer in disguise
he could not bear to look into
his fair Felice’s eyes.

A hermit and a holy man
as he prepared to die
he sent his wife his wedding ring
to say, ‘Love it was I

who waited at your castle gates,
who took the alms you gave
with head bowed low each day I walked
from this poor hermit’s cave.

And now I long to see your face,
I long to feel your hand
to tell you why I had to go.
Pray God, you understand.’

Some say she ran in joy then pain
to push the chapel door,
to find her love already dead
upon the altar floor

but where the River Avon bends
by weir and wheel and well
the damsel and the dragonfly
weave other tales that tell

how fair Felice nursed Guy with song,
how he slowed down his breath,
how their lost son stood closely by
to guide him into death.

And that’s why heavenly angels sing
upon Guy’s Cliffe today
for Guy and for his fair Felice,
for Faith’s felicity.

Julie Boden
March 2005-04-01