To Twillford's gate on Tembley Square
A farthing's throw from Ballyfaire,
Did young Bill Squire
With heart's desire
Come seek the hand of Gwenevaire.

He made his way through cobbled streets
Past Old St. Paul's whose bells would greet
And comfort those
Who count their woes
And find God's grace through lone retreat.

With hurried pace and thoughts a'blur
Bill counseled how he'd pleasure her.
He'd bind his plea
On bended knee
That their bethrothal soon occur.

Her sea blue eyes and coal black hair
That favored so his Gwenevaire
Entranced young Bill
And firmed his will
To link them both in wedded care.

So keen and sweet the heartfelt joy
That joined this lovestruck girl and boy.
T'would give relief
In love's belief
That nothing earthly could destroy.

He minded well the morning mist.
An eerie shroud for this day's tryst.
An icy chill
Now cloaked young Bill.
It mocked his love's intended bliss.

Bill neared the gate still unaware
That something sad was in the air.
A wisp of fog
From nearby bog
Did now suggest that he beware.

Some flowers draped on Twillford's Gate
Were withered sere as though its fate
Did taint the air
In deep despair
With fragrance that would desiccate.

A plague had crept through London town
On stealthy rodent feet unbound.
And, in its wake,
Death praised its take
And lifted high the reaper's crown.

They called it by its proper name:
"Black Plague" performed its deadly game.
Where undertaker,
coffin-maker,
Joined to feast on death cart's claim.

Soon built would be the funeral pyre
And fear would kindle blazing fire.
A scornful cry
Would reach on high
To haunt the soul of Billy Squire.

The young man rang the wall gate bell.
It echoed with a haunting knell
As if to say,
"Upon this day
I fear a wraith within does dwell."

Again the wall gate bell did chime
As apprehension marked its time.
If some great sin
Had passed within
No one had yet divulged the crime.

Once more Bill pulled the wall gate bell
With hope that all inside was well.
And, if t'were so
He begged to know
So that all dread he might dispel.

And then a servant's face appeared
Whose countenance was sadly teared.
Her tortured cries
Through reddened eyes
Would tell young Bill what he most feared.

Beyond the gate...inside...alone
Lay Gwenevaire as still as stone.
The scourge had won
And claimed her tongue
And placed her name on angel's throne.

No more would laughter pass her lips.
No more would passion flame her hips.
She now was wed
Unto the dead.
Forever stilled by death's eclipse.

Young Squire did mourn his lady fair--
The young, sweet, gentle Gwenevaire.
With downcast head
He turned and fled
From Twillford's Gate on Tembley Square.