The Bloody Hand

Sir Thomas Holte of Duddeston, Was Baronet and Knight, Of landed squires just hereabout, He was the chiefest, quite. Of Nechells Manor he was lord, Of Aston Manor too, With house and lands at Erdington, And others not a few. Hed lots of cash and silver plate, With jewels, and whats more, His scullions, cooks and serving men, Were numbered by the score. But though with worldly goods so blest, His temper was the worst, Most violent and dangerous, That ever mortal cursed. His heart contained no tender spot, His eye no tender look, He never spoke a gentle word, Except to John, his cook. For John had found the only way To reach his masters heart, Was via his esophagus, And ably plied his art. His dinners, and his suppers, served With soups, both clear and thick, Were excellent in every way, And always to the tick. One day, Sir Thomas, slightly warmed With gratitude and wine, Did tell good Parson Smith to write His cook a votive line. Something to warn the other knaves, By me here clothed and fed, The parson gazed long at the fire, And this is what he said: If service be thy meane to thrive, Thou must therein remaine, Both silent, faithful, just and true, Content to take some paine. If love of virtue may allure, Or hope of worldly gaine, If feare of God may thee, procure, To serve doe not disdaine Right well expressed, Sir Thomas said, To teach these varlets all, Ill have it cut upon a stone, And built into a wall. That night he slept a troubled sleep, And dreamt a troubled dream, He thought unto himself applied The parsons lines did seem. He rose up with the sun next morn, And went to hunt the deer With boon companions, who, with jest Tried hard his gloom to cheer. Out spake young Richard Smallbrooke then, A free outspoken wight, Now Holte, away with sullen care, Well sup with you tonight. And just to try that perfect cook, Of whom weve often heard, Ill wager you my swiftest horse Well find him unprepared. Your wager I accept, said Holte, Id sooner doubt the sun To keep to his accustomed time, Than doubt my good cook John. Mere idle boast, young Smallbrooke cried, Lives there this earth upon, In humble guise of working cook, So great a paragon. At eve they went to Duddeston, Sir Thomas stood aghast, The table there was still unspread, The hour agreed had passed. His rage was terrible to see, When Smallbrooke, with a jeer, Read the lines upon the wall, Aloud for all to hear. If service be thy meane to thrive, Thou must therein remaine, Both silent, faithful, just and true, Content to take some paine. By service certainly he thrives Though I doubt if hell remain Faithful and true, but now I ween Hell have to take some paine. Thus maddened, Holte straight sought his cook, And at him rushed amain, He seized a cleaver keen and cold And cleft his skull in twain. Years have passed since the fatal night, Dick Smallbrooke long is dead, Holte lives at Aston now, in state, Morose and sad tis said. And blazoned in his casement there, The Bloody Hand youll see, Theyll tell you its the Ulster badge, By rules of heraldry, And in the hall, right quaintly cut, Youll find upon a stone The self-same lines the parson wrote That night at Duddeston.