Rolph David

Remember, Remember, The 5th of November...

In days of old, in sixteen-oh-five,
When strife and discord were alive,
A plot brewed deep in secrecy's shade,
By men of faith, their anger displayed.

'Twas Catesby led this dark campaign,
With co-conspirators who'd disdain
King James I, his rule they cursed,
For Catholic rights, they fervently thirst.

Robert Catesby, resolute and keen,
And comrades in this clandestine scene,
Thomas Winter, Percy, Wright in tow,
Their fury, a fierce and potent blow.

Displeased with the king's refusal to grant
Religious freedom, they sought to supplant
The Protestant rule, by acts extreme,
A treacherous plan, not just a dream.

In May, sixteen-oh-three, it all began,
Catesby's mind hatched a sinister plan,
Thomas Percy, he soon did recruit,
For an act that England would refute.

A message to cousin Robert sent,
Urgent, secret, its contents meant
To draw him in, to London's fold,
The seeds of treachery silently told.

At Lambeth House, plans took their flight,
In sixteen-oh-four, a dreadful sight.
Catesby, Wright, and Winter learned,
A scheme for which they deeply yearned.

The repeal of laws, penal and grim,
That deemed their faith a sinful sin.
A quiet attempt before the blast,
But tolerance shunned, the die was cast.

To Flanders went Winter's quest,
To seek the aid they thought was best,
Juan de Velasco, a duke of might,
Yet promises failed, bringing only blight.

Fawkes, devoted to their cause,
Joined the plot, without a pause.
Mass was heard, oaths were sworn,
Their hearts with fervour, deeply torn.

Barrels of gunpowder, hidden away,
Beneath the House of Lords, in dark array.
Preparations complete by May's end,
Their resolve, they did fervently defend.

Fawkes embarked for Flanders' shore,
The plan he shared with Owen, swore.
Sir Edmund to Rome, with hopes high,
To gain support when the king would die.

A grand hunt in Warwickshire's land,
Noble guests, an elite band.
After the blast on fifth November,
They'd rise to power, they'd endeavour.

The explosion to bring chaos near,
To take hold when confusion's fear,
Their hopes to capture the royal kin,
And from the chaos, their rule to begin.

But a wrench in their scheme, a letter sent,
To Lord Monteagle, a warning, it meant.
"Shun Parliament," the message read,
A hint of doom, a sense of dread.

Anonymous words that stirred the air,
Tresham, it seemed, with a warning to spare.
Monteagle to Salisbury bore the letter,
An attempt to avert catastrophe, make it better.

The cellar checked before the hour,
But not too soon to crush their power.
October's end, the secret known,
Winter's plea to Catesby, softly thrown.

Fawkes assured, nothing was found,
The plot, they thought, on solid ground.
The government, they hoped, unaware,
Catesby’s resolve, steadfast and rare.

November's dawn, the king took heed,
Ordered the cellar to face its deed.
Fawkes at the door, a moment's sight,
Questioned and caught, dispelling the night.

Under torture, Fawkes did speak,
Revealing names, making the future bleak.
The conspirators fled, apart they went,
Save Tresham, to their last intent.

They dispersed, but plans forlorn,
No aid, no support as the day was born.
Catesby confessed, deceit unfurled,
The truth, a cruel blow to a forsworn world.

Huddington's fate, a band distressed,
Confession and mass before they're pressed.
To Holbeche House, their refuge dire,
But options waned, consumed by fire.

Gunpowder burst, a judgment stern,
Struck fear, guilt stirred, causing concern.
The weight of their crime, a heavy shroud,
Their cause distorted, no longer proud.

The sheriff's forces, drawing near,
The end in sight, their fate was clear.
Catesby, Percy, Wright would fall,
Winter and Rokewood, prisoners' call.

Eight met the gallows, their sentence stark,
Fawkes, Keyes, & Rokewood, in the flames' mark.
Tresham died in the Tower's keep,
Garnet's fate, in execution's sweep.

The cause they fought for, lost in vain,
The blow they struck brought naught but pain.
Laws grew harsh on Catholic soil,
Toleration's hope, in turmoil.

November 5, a day of praise,
For thwarting the plot in many ways.
Guy Fawkes Day, still the streets alight,
With bonfires burning through the night.

The Gunpowder Plot, a tale of yore,
Of treachery, bloodshed, forevermore.
A quest for change, with a heavy cost,
In history's pages, forever embossed.

All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Rolph David.
Published on on 11/05/2023.


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