{"id":121,"date":"2021-11-20T10:10:46","date_gmt":"2021-11-20T10:10:46","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/?page_id=121"},"modified":"2024-03-14T12:13:55","modified_gmt":"2024-03-14T12:13:55","slug":"the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821\/","title":{"rendered":"The Ballad of St Kenelm &#8211; AD 821 by Francis Brett Young"},"content":{"rendered":"<div class=\"pdfprnt-buttons pdfprnt-buttons-page pdfprnt-top-right\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/121?print=print\" class=\"pdfprnt-button pdfprnt-button-print\" target=\"_blank\" ><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/wp-content\/plugins\/pdf-print\/images\/print.png\" alt=\"image_print\" title=\"Print Content\" \/><\/a><\/div>\n<div id=\"ez-toc-container\" class=\"ez-toc-v2_0_82_2 counter-hierarchy ez-toc-counter ez-toc-grey ez-toc-container-direction\">\n<div class=\"ez-toc-title-container\">\n<p class=\"ez-toc-title\" style=\"cursor:inherit\">Contents<\/p>\n<span class=\"ez-toc-title-toggle\"><\/span><\/div>\n<nav><ul class='ez-toc-list ez-toc-list-level-1 ' ><li class='ez-toc-page-1 ez-toc-heading-level-3'><a class=\"ez-toc-link ez-toc-heading-1\" href=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821\/#Introduction\" >Introduction<\/a><\/li><li class='ez-toc-page-1 ez-toc-heading-level-3'><a class=\"ez-toc-link ez-toc-heading-2\" href=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821\/#Text\" >Text<\/a><\/li><li class='ez-toc-page-1 ez-toc-heading-level-3'><a class=\"ez-toc-link ez-toc-heading-3\" href=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821\/#Musical_Setting\" >Musical Setting<\/a><\/li><\/ul><\/nav><\/div>\n<h3 class=\"wp-block-heading\" id=\"by-francis-brett-young\"><span class=\"ez-toc-section\" id=\"Introduction\"><\/span>Introduction<span class=\"ez-toc-section-end\"><\/span><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<p>Francis Brett Young (29 June 1884 \u2013 28 March 1954) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, composer who was born and lived for his early life in Halesowen, near the Clent Hills. He published some 30 novels, the most famous of which was <em>My Brother Jonathan<\/em> (1928). In 1944, he published an epic poem <em>The Island<\/em>, covering the whole history of Britain from the Bronze Age to the Battle of Britain. The entire first edition of 23,500 sold out immediately and was then reprinted. Included in this was a ballad about the legend of St Kenelm, which is reproduced below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>A <a href=\"#ms\">musical setting<\/a> for the Ballad was recently written by Andrew Downes and first performed in July 2016. A film of this performance is to be found lower down on this page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<h3 class=\"wp-block-heading\"><span class=\"ez-toc-section\" id=\"Text\"><\/span>Text<span class=\"ez-toc-section-end\"><\/span><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<pre class=\"wp-block-verse\">In our sweet shires of Mercia \nFive blessed Saints we had; \nFour were proud Princes of the Church, \nAnd one was a little lad. \n  \nWistan, Wulstan, Oswald, Chad: \nEach hallowed Mercia's realm; \nBut the saint we love all others above \nIs little Saint Kenelm. \n  \nKenelm was but a child of seven \nAnd his father seven weeks dead, \nWhen in Lichfield town they set the crown \nOf kingship on his head, \n  \nAnd hailed him as their anointed king, \nWhile all the Mercian lords \nTook oath to stand at Kenelm's hand \nOn the cross-hilts of their swords; \n  \nAnd the bronze bells of Lichfield clanged \nAnd rocked their towers of stone, \nThat God had sent an innocent \nTo sit on Offa's throne; \n  \nWhile folk that laboured in the fields \nHeard the bells clang with joy, \nAnd thronged the ways to cheer and gaze \nOn the beauty of the boy. \n  \nBut his sister Quendryth in her bower \nBrooding stayed apart; \nAlone she sate, with naught but hate !\nAnd black gall in her heart, \n  \nAnd a sour face thrawn with bitterness \nThat this weak child should own \nThe shining prize for which her eyes \nMost lusted: Mercia's crown. \n  \nSo sent she for her paramour- \nLord Escebert was his name- \nAnd whispered near his willing ear \nThese words of dark shame: \n  \n\"We twain are one in will and flesh, \nAnd but for one small thing \nI should have been thy crowned queen \nAnd thou my wedded king; \n  \n\"And that small thing is but the breath \n Of my father's brat, Kenelm. \nGive me his life, and wed me wife, \nAnd we will share this realm!\" \n  \nThen Escebert, her paramour, \nPondered Quendrytha's rede, \nAnd searched his mind some way to find \nTo compass that dark deed. \n  \nAnd as it chanced, that very month, \nThe Lords of Mercia went \nTo hunt the wolf in Offa's Wood \nThat shags the hills of Clent: \n  \nA deep wood and a dark wood, \nFor black deeds meet, where grew \nA brambled brash of oak and ash, \nHazel and holly and yew. \n  \nAnd when into the wood's green heart \nHe saw the hunters ride, \nThen Escebert slipped behind, and clipped \nHimself to Kenelm's side. \n  \n\"Good Escebert, they ride too fast: \nForsake me not, I pray, \nWhen through the thorns the wail of horns \nShivers and dies away!\" \n  \n\"Let them ride on, my little king: \nNo matter how far they go, \nYou need have no fear of wolf or bear \nWith me at your saddle-bow.\" \n  \n\"Good Escebert, a thorn has hurt \nMy pony's hoof, I fear: \nThe dusk now broods on these wild woods \nAnd the black of night draws near.\" \n  \n\"Content thyself, my little king, \nNor dread the fading light: \nFull well I wot of a woodward's cot \nWhere we may bide this night.\" \n  \n\"Good Escebert, I am athirst, \nAnd my tongue cleaves to my mouth.\" \n\"I know of a spring, my little king, \nTo slake and quench thy drouth.\" \n  \nBut when they came to a woodland brook, \nAnd the child, unaware, \nKnelt by the brink and bent to drink, \nA sword flashed in the air; \n  \nAnd the shorn head of little Kenelm \nReddened the brook with blood, \nWhile Escebert leapt to his saddle and crept \nLike a wolf from Offa's Wood. \n  \nLoose-reined he rode through the dark night \nTill he came to the hall of a thane \nWhere the huntsmen rolled with ale and told \nOf the fierce wolves they had slain. \n  \nHo, Escebert, good lord,\" they cried, \n\"Come join out wassailing! \nFor you have missed our drinking-tryst \nTo ride with the little king.\" \n  \nThen Escebert's false cheek grew wan: \n\"God witness what I say! \nI have not seen Kenelm, I ween, \nSince noon of yesterday, \n  \n\"Nor can I guess what ways he strayed: \nSo quit your wassail-board, \nThat all may search oak ash and birch \nTo find our little lord!\" \n  \nA weary week those woods they searched \nBy holt and holm and glade; \nBut neither eve nor foot drew nigh \nThe place where he was laid; \n  \nAnd never a single whisper woke \nThose brambly solitudes \nBut the rustle that spreads from the wind-stirred heads \nOf wild trees in the woods. \n  \n(Hazel, hazel, bend your boughs \nOver the streamlet's bed, \nAnd with your primrose pollen gild \nA halo for his head! \n  \nHolly, holly, shake your branch \nTill the brittle leaves rain down, \nAnd weave about the dead child's brow \nA martyr's thorny crown! \n  \nCherry, cherry, shed your snow \nOf petals in a cloud, \nAnd on the little limbs below \nSpread a soft shroud! \n  \nYew tree, yew tree, over him \nYour funeral pennons wave; \nBut let not your bright berries drip \nTheir blood upon his grave, \n  \nTo fleck the whiteness of the shroud \nThat the wild cherry strewed \nOn the gentlest fawn that ever was torn \nBy wolf in Offa's Wood!) \n  \nSo home the hunt to Lichfield rode \nAnd the bronze bells clanged again \nA muffled toll for the innocent soul \nOf the child that had been slain; \n  \nAnd folk who heard the tolling wept, \nFor they knew what it must mean; \nAnd the Mercian Lords swore on their swords \nTo hold Quendrytha queen. \n  \nNow far away in Italy, \nUnder Peter's dome, \nFrail and old on his throne of gold \nSlept Paschal, Pope of Rome. \n  \nA weary man, an aged man \nOf four score years and seven; \nAnd in his listless hands he held \nThe Crossed Keys of Heaven. \n  \nHoly Holy, Holy! \nThe children's voices swell, \nWhile sweet and loud, through the incense-cloud \nShivers the Sanctus Bell; \n  \nAnd as they heard the silvery chime, \nFrom the clouded vault above \nLike a falling flake of cherry-bloom \nFluttered a milk-white dove \n  \nThat held a quill in his golden bill \nAnd laid it on the Host, \nAnd all the people rose and cried: \n\"See, see: the Holy Ghost!\" \n  \n\"A miracle ... A miracle!\" \nSo loud a cry there broke \nThat the old Pope rubbed his rheumy eyes \nAnd dropt his keys, and woke! \n  \nAnd he called three scarlet cardinals \nTo read out what was writ \nOn the parchment folded within the quill, \nBut they could not fathom it. \n  \n\"These -words are writ in rhyme,\" they said, \nAnd the tongue of a far land \nThat none in Rome or Christendom \nIs like to understand. \n  \n\"Yet all strange peoples come to Rome, \nSo let the rhyme be heard; \nSome ear may catch the sound and match \nThe sense to fit the word\": \n  \nIn Clent cowbethe Kenelm Kynebear lfth \nUnder thorne haevedes bereaft. \n  \nThen up spoke an old Saxon clerk: \n\"Sirs, you have given news \nOf the bloodiest deed that ever was done \nSince Christ was slain by the Jews: \n  \n\"That in Cowbeath, which is by Clent, \nMidmost in Mercia's realm, \nBeneath a thorn, his head off shorn, \nLieth our king, Kenelm.\" \n  \nSo the Pope blessed that screed, \nand with The ring of Peter sealed, \nAnd bade that Saxon carry it \nTo his Bishop, in Lichfield. \n  \nThen, once again, from Lichfield towers, \nThe bells boomed overhead; \nAnd the Mercian thanes rode out again \nTo search for Kenelm's head; \n  \nAnd when they came to the woods of Clent \nAnd rode into the shade, \nBehold-a shaft of blinding light \nFell where the child was laid! \n  \nSo, tenderly, they lifted him \nAnd bore him to his tomb \nIn Winchcombe, where our Mercian kings \nLie till the Day of Doom; \n  \nBut as through Winchcombe's mourning street \nThey passed by slow degrees, \nQuendrytha at her window sate \nWith the Bible on her knees. \n  \nShe read of false Queen Jezebel, \nAnd when they spied the hearse \nThat carried Kenelm, her wicked eyes \nSpat blood upon the verse. \n  \nAnd the common folk, who saw this thing, \nKnew what it meant full well, \nAnd flung her down into the street \nTo lie like Jezebel; \n  \nAnd Escebert, her foul paramour, \nThey slew him where he stood; \nAnd those twain lay for a week and a day, \nAnd the dogs lapped their blood. \n  \nBut the king's lords buried little Kenelm \nWith pomp in Winchcombe's fane, \nAnd built a chantry for pilgrim-folk \nBy the brook where he was slain; \n  \nAnd the waters that well from where he fell \nAll mortal ills assuage\u00ad \nNot even Saint Thomas of Canterbury \nHath greater pilgrimage \n  \nThan the innocent king of Mercia \nThat his sister's leman slew \nAnd hid in the brash of oak and ash, \nhazel and holly and yew! \n  \nWistan, Wulstan, Oswald, Chad: \nAll pray for Mercia's realm; \nBut our loveliest saint was a little lad: \nKing Kynewulf's son, Kenelm.\n<\/pre>\n\n\n\n<h3 class=\"wp-block-heading\" id=\"ms\"><span class=\"ez-toc-section\" id=\"Musical_Setting\"><\/span>Musical Setting<span class=\"ez-toc-section-end\"><\/span><\/h3>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-image aligncenter size-large is-resized\"><img decoding=\"async\" src=\"https:\/\/www.andrewdownes.com\/images\/xkenelmHRWilsonbkccover.jpg.pagespeed.ic.i7fTjaYStV.jpg\" alt=\"\" style=\"width:602px;height:425px\"\/><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p>In 2015, The Francis Brett Young Society  commissioned the local composer Andrew Downes to set <em>The Ballad of St Kenelm<\/em> to music, using a 14-piece orchestra and a cast of players to bring the story to life. The haunting music and Francis Brett Young&#8217;s powerful verse make a moving combination. The performance in the video below from July 2016 was<em> <\/em>conducted by Cynthia Downes, joined by the Hagley Community Orchestra and the Central England Ensemble and her daughter Paula who sung the soprano lead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-embed is-type-video is-provider-youtube wp-block-embed-youtube wp-embed-aspect-16-9 wp-has-aspect-ratio\"><div class=\"wp-block-embed__wrapper\">\n<span class=\"embed-youtube\" style=\"text-align:center; display: block;\"><iframe loading=\"lazy\" class=\"youtube-player\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/7G9oMCOrYC4?version=3&#038;rel=1&#038;showsearch=0&#038;showinfo=1&#038;iv_load_policy=1&#038;fs=1&#038;hl=en&#038;autohide=2&#038;wmode=transparent\" allowfullscreen=\"true\" style=\"border:0;\" sandbox=\"allow-scripts allow-same-origin allow-popups allow-presentation allow-popups-to-escape-sandbox\"><\/iframe><\/span>\n<\/div><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Introduction Francis Brett Young (29 June 1884 \u2013 28 March 1954) was an English novelist, poet, playwright, composer who was born and lived for his early life in Halesowen, near the Clent Hills. He published some 30 novels, the most famous of which was My Brother Jonathan (1928). In 1944, he published an epic poem &hellip;<\/p>\n<p class=\"read-more\"> <a class=\"\" href=\"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/the-balad-of-st-kenelm-ad-821\/\"> <span class=\"screen-reader-text\">The Ballad of St Kenelm &#8211; AD 821 by Francis Brett Young<\/span> Read More &raquo;<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"","site-content-layout":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-121","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/PdF2vD-1X","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/121","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=121"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/121\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":712,"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/121\/revisions\/712"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.kenelmwalks.uk\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=121"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}