"Vive Fiddle-de-dee! Dol-drum and He!

They are jolly good fellows as ever need be!
And so's Burlybumbo, who sings double D!
And whenever they sing, why, we'll all come and see!"

So, after all This terrible squall,

Fiddle-de-dee 's at the top of the tree,

And Dol-drum and Fal-de-ral-tit sing small !
Now Fiddle-de-dee sings loud and clear
At I can't tell you how many thousands a year,
And Fal-de-ral-tit is considered "Small Beer: "

And Ma'am'selle Cherrytoes Sports her merry

toes

Dancing away to the fiddles and flutes,

In what the folks call a "Lithuanian" in boots.

So here's an end to my one, two, and three;
And bless the Queen-and long live She!
And grant that there never again may be
Such a hallibaloo as we've happen'd to see
About nothing on earth but "Fiddle-de-dee!"

We come now to the rummaging of Father John's stores. The extracts which I shall submit from them are of the same character as those formerly derived from the same source, and may be considered as theologicohistorical, or Tracts for his times.

With respect to the first legend on this list, I have to remark that, though the good Father is silent on the subject, there is every reason to believe that the "little curly-wigged" gentleman, who plays, though passively, so prominent a part in it, had Ingoldsby blood in his veins. This conjecture is supported by the fact of the arms of Scroope, impaling Ingoldsby, being found, as in the Bray case, in one of the windows, and by a very old marriage-settlement nearly, or quite, illegible, a facsimile of the seal affixed to which is appended to this true history.

THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT; OR, THE DEVIL'S DINNER-PARTY.

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE.

"Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr. Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in hæc verba: 'Veniant igitur omnes dæmones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!'

"Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillæ, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferunt. Dæmones incipiunt comessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum,

luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, vbi infans meus? Vix cum hæc dixisset, unus ex Dæmonibus, ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, &c."-Chronicon de Bolton.

It's in Bolton Hall, and the Clock strikes One,

And the roast meat's brown and the boil'd meat

done,

And the barbecu'd sucking-pig's crisp'd to a turn,
And the pancakes are fried, and beginning to burn;

The fat stubble-goose Swims in gravy and juice,
With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
Want nothing but eating-they're all ready drest,
But where is the Host and where is the Guest?

Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page,
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),

And the scullions and cooks, With fidgety looks,
Are grumbling and mutt'ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner's put back;
For though the board's deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunn'd snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnish'd with stool and with chair,
And plate of orjèverie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar all are there,

And Mess John in his place, With his rubicund face

And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace,
Yet where is the Host? - And his convives-where?

The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
He watches the large hand, he watches the small,

And he fidgets and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters-a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" And he cries, "What on earth has become of them

all?

What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye?

Why are Ralph Ufford and Marney away?

And De Nokes and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke

Grey?

And De Roe? And De Doe?-
Poynings and Vavasour-where be they?

Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Osbert, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, père et filz (father and son)?
Their cards said 'Dinner precisely at One!'

There's nothing I hate, in The world like waiting!
It's a monstrous great bore, when a Gentleman feels
A good appetite, thus to be kept from his meals!"

It's in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes Two!
And the scullions and cooks are themselves in "a

stew,"

And the kitchen-maids stand, and don't know what

to do,

For the rich plum-puddings are bursting their bags,

And the mutton and turnips are boiling to rags,

And the fish is all spoil'd, And the butter's all
oil'd,

And the soup's got cold in the silver tureen,
And there is nothing, in short, that is fit to be seen!
While Sir Guy Le Scroope continues to fume,
And to fret by himself in the tapestried room,

And still fidgets and looks More cross than the
cooks,

And repeats that bad word, which we've soften'd to

"Zooks!"

Two o'clock's come, and Two o'clock's gone,
And the large and the small hands move steadily on,

Still nobody's there, No De Roos, or De Clare,
To taste of the Scroope's most delicate fare,
Or to quaff a health unto Bolton's Heir,

That nice little boy who sits there in his chair
Some four years old and a few months to spare,
With his laughing blue eyes, and his long curly

hair,

Now sucking his thumb, and now munching his pear.

Again, Sir Guy the silence broke,

"It's hard upon Three!-it's just on the stroke!