Blessed Nicholas Postgate
The wind from the North Sea was chill,
A sign of the winter to come,
As he trekked yet once more
Over moors he knew well,
His white hair blown behind by the wind.
Four score years before, he'd been born
In a poor cottage close to the Esk,
Where, in secret, his parents arranged
That, in Baptism, God's grace he'd receive,
And after Saint Nicholas they named him.
Egton Bridge on the Esk
Was his fond boyhood home
And he knew all the byways around,
But, as manhood approached,
A strong calling he felt
To leave both his parents and home.
To Douai in Flanders he went,
To the college for training of priests,
Then, ordained, he returned to his homeland
For those still true to the Old Faith,
Who yearned for the Mass and the ministry
Which only a priest could provide.
Back in England at first he had served
In the recusant gentry's safe homes,
Where, as chaplain disguised in a low servant's garb,
He had served them all well for many a year
Till the call of his own folk he'd felt
And a much harder life he then chose.
For twenty years now he had lived
In 'The Hermitage' which he called home,
A one-room shack high on the moors,
Whence he walked to his far-scattered flock
To take them their spiritual food.
Bound for Littlebeck that gusty day,
Called to baptise the Lyths' new-born son,
He was going to a family known to him well,
Whose home was a warm and welcoming place,
As he'd found many times in the past.
But in far-away London a rumour was spread
Titus Oates was the source of the lie –
That the Papists were plotting to murder the King,
Hysteria resulted which fuelled the mob
To burn Catholic homes and hunt down their priests,
Each with a price on his head.
As Nicholas baptised the infant
One John Reeves, a stranger, burst in,
A priest hunter scenting his prey,
He seized the old man and led him away
To face trial for high treason in York.
To none he'd done harm, to none given hurt,
And to many he'd brought peace and joy,
But his priesthood was treason
In England those days,
And the penalty for it was death.
He was guilty as charged, so the trial was brief,
Through the streets they then dragged him away
Tied on a hurdle so that all should observe
The condemned man go forth to his fate.
On the Knavesmire they hanged him,
Took him down still alive,
For the barbarism must be complete,
Disembowelled his body, then tore it in four
The price which a traitor must pay.
Envoi
These days each year many folk gather,
They come both from far and from near,
To the Rally held in 'Postgate Country'
Where, at Mass, thanks are given for Nicholas,
And his own sweet hymn sung at the end.
John Mulholland
Feast of St. Joseph, 2021
This poem is gratefully dedicated to my recusant forebears from the Esk Valley.
Nicholas Postgate (c1597-1679) was beatified by Pope John Paul II in 1987. The Postgate Rallies are held in the open air in July each year, alternately in Egton Bridge and Ugthorpe, two places closely associated with his life.
St Hedda's, Egton Bridge