"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk, I trow, am I,

But well, I ween, May there be seen
Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
Although no clerk, Well may I mark
The particular turn of her P's and her Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage,

By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;

The scroll he seizes, The Page he squeezes, And buffets, -and pinches his nose till he sneezes ; Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days, 'stead of little Queen's

heads.

When the contents of the scroll met his view,
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew,

Backward he drew His nailed shoe,
And he kicked that naughty Foot-Page, that he flew
Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,
I may not say whither-I never knew.

"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"

"Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!

Twenty and three?

Stretched in his gore

Stay-let me see!
There lieth one more!

By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four! Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there.

But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows

where!

Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be,
Though one got away and ran up a tree!"

"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"-
"One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
"A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he,
"Now heav'n thee save, A boon I crave,
A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;

A year and a day Have I been away,
King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise,

And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she

sighs,

And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,

And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!

Oh! when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'
A boon, a boon, my Liege," quoth he,
"Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray," King Richard said right graciously,

"Of all in my host That I love the most,

I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;

But-mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"

FYTTE II.

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,

And a belted Knight, In armour dight,
Is begging a boon on his bended knee,
With signs of grief and sounds of woe
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
In my fury and rage A little Foot-page

I have left, I fear me, in evil case;

A scroll of shame From a faithless dame Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear:

I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick, That sent him-I can't tell your Holiness where ! Had he as many necks as hairs,

He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;

A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee:

Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of Holy Church should vainly sue!-
-Foot-pages, they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they,

Well mote we spare A page-or a pair,
For the matter of that-Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
But stout and true Soldiers, like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!

Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a pater be said;
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace!

Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,

I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;

'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore:

Alack! alack! too surely I knew

The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,

And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew !

Dame Alice I found,

ground,

She sank on the

I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer, and mock and scoff,
I twisted it on till I twisted it off!-

All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,

Why really I hardly know what to say :-
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay. -
-Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray,

For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,

For a year, and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!

No power could save That paramour knave; I left him, I wot, in evil case!

There, 'midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain,

His legs lie here, and his arms lie there,

And his head lies- I can't tell your Holiness where!"

Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of Holy Church, in such pitiful plight! Foul sin her warriors so to slay,

When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!