It is boldly affirm'd, by the folks great and small,
About Milton, and Chalk, and around Cobham Hall,
Still on Candlemas day haunts the old ruin'd wall,
And that many have seen him, and more heard him

squall.

So, I think, when the facts of the case you recall,
My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall,

Viz., that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope,

Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d-d after all!

MORAL.

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree,
In livery or out of it, listen to me!

See what comes of lying! don't join in a league
To humbug your master, or aid an intrigue !

Ladies!-married and single, from this understand
How foolish it is to send letters by hand!
Don't stand for the sake of a penny, -but when you
've a billet to send To a lover or friend,

Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen!-you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,-but don't love their wives!

And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF

YOUR HEADS!"

Knights!-whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms

are so strong,

Learn, to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong!
If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs,
Rebuke them-but mildly-don't kick them down stairs!
To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend,
"If you want matters well managed, Go!-if not, Send!"
A servant's too often a negligent elf;

If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires

People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now-don't do that by proxy!-but choose your own

wife!

For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead

Of the sweet face you look for-A SARACEN'S HEAD!

Alas, for Ingoldsby Abbey!-Alas that one should have to say

Periêrunt etiam Ruinæ!

Its very Ruins now are tiny!

There is a something in the very sight of an old Abbey -family associations apart-as Ossian says (or MacPherson for him), "pleasing yet mournful to the soul!" nor could I ever yet gaze on the roofless walls and ivyclad towers of one of these venerable monuments of the piety of bygone days without something very like an unbidden tear rising to dim the prospect. Something of this, I think, I have already hinted in recording our picnic with the Seaforths at Bolsover. Since then I have paid a visit to the beautiful remains of what once was Netley, and never experienced the sensation to which I have alluded in a stronger degree;-if its character was somewhat changed before we parted-it is not my fault. Still, be the drawbacks what they may, I shall ever mark with a white stone the day on which I for the first time beheld the time-worn cloisters of

NETLEY ABBEY.

A LEGEND OF HAMPSHIRE.

I SAW thee, Netley, as the sun

Across the western wave

Was sinking slow, And a golden glow

To thy roofless towers he gave;

And the ivy sheen, With its mantle of green,

That wrapt thy walls around,

Shone lovelily bright In that glorious light,

And I felt 'twas holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time-
The days of thy Monks of old, -

When to Matin and Vesper, and Compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,

And thy courts, and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a Vision pass'd

Across my mental eye; *

And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate Ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white veils, went by;

Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad, -
But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

Then came the Abbot, with mitre and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,
And a Monk with a book, and a Monk with a bell,

And "dear little souls," In clean linen stoles,
Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-
And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear,
With front severe, And brow austere,
Now and then pinching a little boy's ear
When he chaunts the responses too late, or too soon,
Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.

(Then you know, They'd a "movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now and of course never knew

* "In my mind's eye, Horatio!"- Hamlet.

How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)

It was, in sooth, a comely sight,

And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er"

My spirit-a change of fear-
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!
And there was an ugly hole in the wall-
For an oven too big, -for a cellar too small!

And mortar and bricks All ready to fix,

And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some

tricks!

That horrible hole!-it seems to say,

'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"

And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad-
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.

Ah me! ah me!-'tis sad to think

That Maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compell'd to grow blear, and blink,

Or be closed for aye In this kind of way,

Shut out for ever from wholesome day,
Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,
No light, no air, -no victuals, -no drink!-

And that Maiden's lip, Which was made to
sip,

Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!