PlanetWriters.com - Serpent Well

The legend of Serpent Well is of ancient origin, and was probably passed down by word of mouth for generations. The earliest written source seems to be a retelling of the legend in Martingales “Sporting Scenes and Country Characters” (Doncaster Gazette 1864). I have adopted the style, and even some of the words of Chaucer’s Pardoner’s Tale in my retelling as there is a similarity in the theme. The Pardoner’s moral is changed to Radix malorum imbibo est (Boozing is the root of evil).

SERPENT WELL

In Conisbrough there was a company
Of youths who spent their time in revelry:
Riot and gambling; brothels, pubs and bars,
Singing, dancing, playing their guitars
And making to the Devil, sacrifice,
By wallowing in every kind of vice.
But worse of all – you should have heard them swear!
You would have blushed if you could have been there!
Or maybe not – the young folk of today
Are just as foul-mouthed. Most of them can’t say
A thing without it’s effin’ this and that;
“W*nk*r”, “b*st*rd”, “bl**dy h*ll” and “tw*t”.
The beautiful old dialect has gone
To Ali G-style slang and words of one.
Instead of “Eeh bah gum put wood in’t oil.
Wast tha born in Maltby in a moyl?”
It’s, “Booyakasha! Check it out, an’ bin it!”
(It’s like they’z in da West Staines Massive, innit?)
They also smoke and drink, and deal in drugs
Which turn the nicest people into thugs.
It only goes to show that nothing changes,
The youths of then and now would not be strangers.
Flat-screen TV and other modern stuff
Have not made Conisbrough young folk less rough!
The only thing that’s different today
Is that the brothels have now gone away.
It’s true! (though visitors to town may scoff)
You cannot get a decent bowl of broth!
Among these youths of long ago were two
Who loved to tipple every kind of brew;
Ale and cider – wine if they could get it –
Each had a whistle – and he like to wet it!
The Bald-Faced Stag (called The Red Lion today)
Was the pub where they most like to stay.
They also liked the Chequers at Tickhill
And at the Maltby Buck’s Head drank their fill.
In short, there was no tavern near or far
Where they were not well known behind the bar.
Peter was a delver in the quarry
At Cadeby Cliffs, and always in a hurry
To quench his thirst and make his dry throat wetter,
But Gregory, his friend, should have known better.
He worked at the Roche Abbey fisheries
Where his behaviour did the monks displease.
One day he drank too much on holy ground,
Fell into the lake and nearly drowned.
They rescued him and took him to the Abbot
Who warned him he should quit the drinking habit.
For what is the result of drunkenness? –
Fighting, fornicating and distress!
O how disfigured is a drunkard’s face!
How foul his breath, how filthy his embrace!
And through his nose he breaths a bestial snort
Like “Samson-Samson,” – something of the sort.
Today in Conisbrough it’s even worse
For binge-drinking’s become the modern curse
The lads like to go out and to get hammered;
The ladettes too – they also are enamoured
Of alcopops, and ‘buckets’ with a mix
Of cocktails which they sip through straws for kicks.
Then they stagger out into the night
And vomit in the streets, or shout, or fight.
At least the women in the Middle Ages
Stayed at home and didn’t drink their wages!
And that’s because they didn’t have the curse
That’s made modern society much worse –
Yes, Feminism – that’s is what’s to blame
For making women want to be the same;
And now for every uncouth, drunken lad
There is a foul-mouthed hag who’s just as bad!
But back to Gregory and his pal, Peter –
I’ll tell the tale of how they tried to cheat a
Holy man, and how their punishment
Put them in a pretty predicament.
One day the Abbot sent for Gregory
And said, “Please do a special job for me.
Take these two casks to Father Bernadine
At St Anne’s Chapel – you know where I mean;
That little chapel just across the Don.
And take the donkey cart to put them on.”
Now Father Bernadine was very holy
For he had dedicated himself wholly
To his small chapel and his congregation –
Poor folk all, who lived lives of privation
Cutting limestone from the cliffs nearby,
And he shared in their life of poverty.
In recognition of his life of thrift
The Abbot often sent a modest gift
A side of beef, a cheese, some hens or swine –
On this occasion – casks of Spanish wine.
Gregory took the shortest route he could,
Passing through Oldcoates and Maltby Wood.
But when he got as far as Minnemoor
He felt a thirst as raging as before.
So he, not caring that it is a sin
To drink and drive, went to the Castle Inn.
Inside he found his old friend Peter shirking
And getting drunk while he should have been working.
They drank until they’d had – well, one too many,
And both of them were down to their last penny.
“What can we do when this is spent?” said Peter.
“No prob,” said Gregory, “Just follow me to
My donkey cart outside and we’ll be fine
Because I’ve got two casks of Spanish wine.”
“But surely,” Peter said, “they’re not for you!”
“That’s true, of course, so this is what we’ll do.
We’ll hide that barrel in a cave nearby,
Deliver this one, and then – by and by –
Come back to Butterbusk and drink our fill.
Just help me hide this barrel if you will.”
And so they carried out their wicked plan
Then went on to the chapel of St Anne.
They were so drunk that they could hardly see
The way to go and nearly hit a tree.
But luckily the donkey knew the score
For he had been there many times before.
It was quite late when they at last got there,
And Father Bernadine had finished prayer.
Gregory’s trip had taken a whole day
Even though it wasn’t very far away.
The Holy Father eyed them narrowly
(Their drunkenness was all too clear to see.)
Then Greg got down, trying not to look drunk,
And said, “I’m not so drink as you may thunk,
Just tired – it’s such a long way from the Rabbit –
Robot – I mean – Roche Abbey and the Abbot.
He sent this gift of two – no – I mean one
Wine cask for you and for communion.”
The Holy Father shook his head in sorrow.
“The man who sins today repents tomorrow.
Are you sure you’ve nothing to confess?”
“Nothing,” said Gregory, trying to impress.
“Then,” said the Reverend Father Bernadine,
“Listen, and take heed of what I mean:
God sees all evil for he knoweth all;
That wine shall turn into a bitter gall!”
And then Father wrote a little note
“Thanks for the cask of wine,” was what he wrote.
Gregory guessed it, though he couldn’t read,
And knew that he’d get caught for his misdeed
If he was daft enough to pass it on,
And so he threw it in the River Don
Wrapped round a stone, then said, “Just think
Of all that lovely wine we’re going to drink!”
He was so happy about everything
That he began to dance about and sing:

The Friars of Orders Grey-oh
We cheated them today-oh!

And Peter, who was not to be outdone
Answered with another, just for fun:

A glorious man was Robin Hood
And Little John so tall.
They ate the King’s deer and drank his ale
And so did their merry men all!

“That vicar is as scaly as a trout,”
Said Gregory, “but oh, we caught him out!”
Then Peter, also thinking of his trade,
Another apt comparison then made:
“And as hard as flint. I’d like to hit him,
But only wedge and sledge hammer would split him!”
“Well,” said Greg, “Time to forget that quarrel,
Let’s take your wedge and open up the barrel!”
Peter levered off the wooden lid
But neither guessed the horror that was hid
Inside – it was not Spanish wine at all;
The Father’s words came true – it turned to gall –
Gall in the shape of an enormous serpent!
Greg and Peter wished that they could repent,
But it was too late then – they had to flee
Pursued by this sharp-fanged monstrosity.
“It’s in the Devil’s old shape, I can tell!”
Shrieked Gregory. “He’ll drag us down to Hell
If we do not look lively. Get a move on!
The pair ran all the way to Crookhill Common
Faster than the Doncaster Mail Coach,
Then walked in frightened silence back to Roche.
What of the serpent? Missing out on slaughter
It turned around to quench its thirst for water
And came at last to Cadeby Rattles Well.
Over the wall and down the shaft it fell
And for a long time was not seen again,
Though lurking in the depths it would remain.
No-one would drink the water ever after
Asserting roundly that you would be daft to
Because of all the poison and the smell,
And from that day they called it “Serpent Well”.

What is the moral? If you hadn’t guessed
It’s: Radix malorum imbibo est.

© Arthur, 2010. All rights reserved by the author.

Serpent Well

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