The Life of Saint Bunstable

Martyr and Patron of Madrone

as told by Deirdre Muldomhnargh

---

Prologue

These northern lands are cold and dark and drear.
Our weather far too cold for beer,
Makes us all flock together for to raise
our spirits, good Saint Bunstable to praise.
How we did learn of this martyr meek
will warm thy heart - of this will I now speak.

This wonderous tale one night to me was told
by a friar somewhat more dissolute than old.
Better to hear the marvels he did utter,
I sat me down beside him in the gutter.

In times long past in distant Letchbury,
an English abbey, far across the sea,
the monks had heard a secret -- later lost --
they made from simple wine a splendid sauce.

---

The Spiritual Elevation of Bunstable

Since in that abbey Bunstable did dwell,
to his lot, in obedience, it fell
to guard the brandy stored oaken casks.
He bent with humble heart unto his task.

The cellar he did watch in proper spirit,
and vowed he'd never let intruders near it.
But those were troublous days. The viking horde
would oft attack, with fire and with sword,
destroying peaceful towns and villages,
for there was no defence against their pillages.

One day the folk of Letchbury did shiver
when the dragon ships appeared upon the river.
As the alarm rang out o'er farm and field
Letchburians prepared to flee or yield.
But to the abbey's cellar came no din,
to where lay Bunstable, with saintly grin,
and as he lay in well-besotted slumber
and dreamed of casks of brandy without number,
his brothers fled to save their mortal hides
from Norsemen who sailed upon the tide.

Their leader, Bjorn the Terrible, did boast
his hapless victims he was wont to roast
over the ashes of their manuscripts.
He thought of well-fed friar, and licked his lips.
But when the dragon-ships had reached the beach,
he found the people fled beyond his reach.
Bjorn, unable to contain his ire
swore he'd put the abbey to the fire.

Thought he that some would burn? We do not know,
for, that was far away and long ago.
But wait, spoke up his second-in-command --
smite not this building with thy mighty hand
until we've searched carefully for treasure --
'tis said the monks have hoards beyond all measure.

Well-spoke, cried Bjorn--a hunting we shall go
take thou the tower--I will search below.
In poverty, this abbey was quite pure --
the monks cared less for gold than for liqueur,
and all their liquid treasures they did hide
in the casks poor Bunstable did sleep beside.

Bjorn brought a torch to light the darkness vast --
in flames did light the brandy fumes, a blast
much like the tramp of doom on judgement day
did shake the garth, and even Bjorn did pray,
for he was converted over by strange blue flame.
When it died down, he found out, to his shame
that he'd become completely egglike-bald.
"Bjorn the hairless", he was thenceforth called.

The casks had burst, and Bunstable, who'd tended
them faithfully, to heaven had ascended.
He was declared a martyr, in due time
and long did Bjorn the hairless rue his crime.

---

Bunstable Among the Saints

The angels stopped saint Bunstable in flight
and garbed this holy martyr all in white
showed him a cloud on which to sit all day,
and handed him a golden harp to play.

Said he, although I am a martyred monk,
I'd rather be the patron saint of drunks,
this robe is cold, the cloud is far too soft --
I am unsuited to a life aloft!
And, though I wish not to offend the Lord,
I would be honest--frankly, I am bored.
He plucked his harp and uttered silent curses,
for all his favorite tunes had bawdy verses.

Poor Bunstable felt very out of place
and hoped he might be banished in disgrace.
Now down below, a thousand years had passed
since Bunstable has risen on the blast.
But still he missed the life he'd known on earth --
and, sad for want of revelry and mirth,
he asked to visit for a little while.

The angels bathed him in their gentle smiles.
And said, "The world has changed more than you know
but if 'twould make you happy, why then, go."

So Bunstable was free to walk again,
the world he know--of common men.

---

Saint Bunstable's Mission

First Bunstable went back to England,
but there he saw such changes on each hand
that he did shake his head and sadly sigh.
While thinking how the years had passed him by.
"Does naught remain?" cried Bunstable in woe,
"Where are the simple people I did know?
The modern world's too grim and grey and stark;
it lacks a certain joy, a merry spark.
We had in lechbury in years long gone
but time has passed, and centuries march on."

So travelling with many a mournful moan,
he crossed the sea to the Barony of Madrone.
At last he stood with weary body sore
before a hall, and knocked upon the door.
Full stunned was he when it did open wide
to see that his own people were inside,
as though the years between had disappeared.

For joy the martyr wiped away a tear, come join us, monk, each reveler did call
as Bunstable stepped forth into the hall.
These are my jold, he thought, I'm home at last.
He smiled as 'round the brimming cup was passed.

Ambrosia was ne'er like this, he laughed,
and to the dregs another cupful quaffed
The folk made merry late into the night --
some revelled faithfully until first light.
The martyr stayed among them, to the last
a-singing songs and passing 'round his flask

"My spirit stays among you!", he did cry,
"Strive not to go to heaven when you die
a paradise on earth is far more fun
for men of spirit--brandy, gin or rum
the blessing that I give you is as follows--
like capistrano, you'll be famed for swallows,"
and then St. Bunstable did disappear.

But he returns from time to time, I hear,
the friar said he looked at me and smiled.
You know not who I am, bless you, my child.
Then, as I watched, the friar's face became
illuminated by a flickering blue flame
I've seen in restaurants that serve good flambé.
I realized it was Bunstable's day,
and fell upon my knees there in the street.

O stay saint Bunstable, I thee entreat!
He shook his head and faded from my sight,
and I got most devoutly drunk that night.

FINI