The Ballad of Brunson Lorenza Lewis

THE BALLAD OF BRONSON LEWIS
Tampa Tribune - Sunday, July 31, 1957

There's a tale they tell when memories meet;
From Quincy to Alturas,
It's a tale of a test the Devil made,
The test of Bronson Lewis.

In Florida wild, in days gone by,
When the law of gun was truest;
The land was home to wicked men
But they all feared Bronson Lewis.

Now Alachua County near the Santa Fe
Was Satan's stomping ground;
A trading post that Lewis ran
Known far and wide as "Helltown."

All decent folks avoided the place
Where dark deeds walked by nite;
Where liquor and cards and shameful things
Broke the law of wrong and right.

And overlord of all this sin
Leading the wicked crowd,
Was Bronson Lewis, black sheep son
Of a Caroline family proud.

Like a green bay tree in the land of palms
The trading post's wealth grew great.
And Lewis thought to take his ease
For his time was running late.

So he bought a farm and he settled down
His wild days all behind him.
Yet true it is that you can't escape
Surely the Devil would find him.

Lewis awoke on a sultry nite
To a noise in his cattle pen.
He looked at the herd in the murky light
And then he looked again.

In a huddled heap there lay a calf
And a dark form crouched and waited.
The greenish eyes shown through the black
And the atmosphere was fated.

Now Bronson knew he'd have to act
If his livestock he would save.
He'd have to take the fighting path
Though it might lead to his grave.

Like the eyes of Satan those green eyes glowed,
And the man turned in frightened cry.
But the panther leaped in a fiery flash
And it seemed that Bronson would soon die.

As they met that night in mournful strife
Bronson stared into fearsome eyes.
And he knew at once this cat he fought
Was the Devil in disguise.

Now Satan's claws were sharp as death
And his breath had a brimstone smell.
As they battled there on the trampled dirt
Lewis faced the Gates of Hell.

In the gloomy pit they rolled and fought
Amid the plunging cattle;
His Devil slashed and bit and clawed
… it looked like the man's last battle.

But a rope there was, on the beaten dirt
And it found a way to Bronson's hand.
And he threw the rope round his Devil's throat
And he choked to beat the band.

So his Devil quit and tried to run
But Bronson's blood was high.
He tied the rope to a nearby stump
With a curse and a groaning cry.

His Devil struggled with fearsome snarl,
But his strength was running low.
With his stout arms and a fence rail strong
Lewis killed him blow by blow.

The winner crept from the bloody ground
His grim encounter done.
He knew his life was ebbing fast
For doctors there were none.

For six long months, the brave man lay
And his people all did morn.
Perhaps, like Job, old Lewis cursed
The day that he was born.

But he found his faith as he lay and thought
Of the wicked like he'd led.
And the ashes of his past fell off
When he took up from his bed.

With clear brown eyes and long white beard
Lewis turned to another way.
And at long last to the joy of many
Folks heard the old man pray.

Like Saul of old and others bold
He preached to his fellow man.
And he did his best to atone for crimes
He'd done when he first began.

When his last day came, he stepped away
On a calm and holy level.
Perhaps he was proud at the Pearly Gates
That he'd met and licked his Devil.

That's the tale they tell when memories meet
From Quincy to Alturas.
It's a tale of a test the Devil lost
The test of Bronson Lewis.

Provided by Theresa Manfre of Ocala, FL