"The ship we pumped till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel's Chops.

"Just give a look in Norey's Chart, The very place it tells: I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with sh.e.l.ls.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'

We have at last a call, The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot, too, and all."

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest In Davy Jones's sod, Till I've appeared to you and said, 'Don't sup on that there Cod!

"You live on land, and little think What pa.s.ses in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M., That Cod was picking me!

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many sh.e.l.ls, Instead of only one.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave They sucked my blood like imps!

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell, Just try the dog and cat!"

The spirit fled, they wept his fate, And cried Alas, Alack!

At last up started brother Jim-- "Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

They called the Dog, they called the Cat, The little Kitten, too, And down they put the Cod and sauce To see what brutes would do.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up, Puss never stood at crimps, But munched the Cod--and little Kit Quite feasted on the Shrimps!

The thing was odd, and minus Cod And sauce, they stood like posts; Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

_A Legend of Palestine and West Kent_

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, A stalwart knight, I ween, was he, "Come east, come west, Come lance in rest, Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!"

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 n.o.bles 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!"

"O, 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."

The 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 rise, 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 doth 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 blanch'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 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 pa.s.sion 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, 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?--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 corpses, 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 my 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 sighs 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 seems that 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 ma.s.s 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! and 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,--She sank on the ground,-- I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!