THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE!

A LEGEND OF PALESTINE AND-WEST KENT.

I'll devise thee brave punishments for him!-SHAKSPEARE.

Oh! they came west, and they came east,
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
And they hammer'd away

At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,

Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,-
But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
Twenty and three,

Of high degree,

Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,

All-all save one-and he ran up a tree!

"Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!"

"Twenty and three!

Twenty and three !—

All of them Nobles of high degree:
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,

"What news? what news? come, tell to me !
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page ?-
I've been whacking the foe, till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small! "

"Oh, Hawk and Hound

Are safe and sound,

Beast in byre and Steed in stall ;
And the Watch-dog's bark,

As soon as it's dark,

Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!

"I care not a pound

For Hawk or for Hound,

For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay:

Fain would I hear

Of my dainty dear;

How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?

Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,

"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!

That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he,

And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee,

"Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me:

Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall,
Her sighs they risc, and her tears they fall:

She sits alone,

And she makes her moan;

Dance and song

She considers quite wrong;

Feast and revel

Mere snares of the devil;

She mendeth her hose, and she crieth Alack!
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back!'"'

"Thou liest thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page,
Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me!
There, in thy breast,

'Neath thy silken vest,

What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear

;

Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's Confessor, I ween, is he,
And tidings rare

To him do I bear,

And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"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 mailed shoe,

And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew

Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew,

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 ?

-Stay-let me see!

Stretched in his gore

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,

66

"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,

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.