IN the succeeding Legend we come nearer home. —Father Ingoldsby is particular in describing its locality, situate some eight miles from the Hall—less, if you take the bridle-road by the Church-yard, and so along the valley by Mr. Fector's Abbey.—In the enumeration of the various attempts to appropriate the treasure (drawn from a later source), is omitted one, said to have been undertaken by the worthy ecclesiastic himself, who, as Mrs. Botherby insinuates, is reported to have started for Dover, one fine morn ing, duly furnished with all the means and appliances of Exorcism.—I cannot learn however, that the family was ever enriched by his expedition.




NCE there lived, as I've heard people say,
An "Old Woman clothed in grey,"
        So furrow'd with care,
        So haggard her air,
In her eye such a wild supernatural stare,
        That all who espied her
        Immediately shied her,
        And strove to get out of her way.

        This fearsome Old Woman was taken ill:
        —She sent for the Doctor—he sent her a pill,
And by way of a trial,
A two-shilling phial,
Of green-looking fluid, like lava diluted,
To which I've professed an abhorrence most rooted.*
One of those draughts they so commonly send us,
Labell'd "Haustus catharticus, mane sumendus; '—
She made a wry face,
And, without saying Grace,
Toss'd it off like a dram—it improv'd not her case.

—The Leech came again;
He now open'd a vein,
Still the little Old Woman continued in pain.
So her "Medical Man," although loth to distress her,
Conceived it high time that her Father Confessor
Should he sent for to shrive, and assoilize, and bless her
That she might not slip out of these troublesome scenes
"Unnaneal'd and Unhouseled,"—-whatever that means.*

Growing afraid,
He calls to his aid
A bandy-legg'd neighbour, a "Tailor by trade,"†
Tells him his fears,
Bids him lay by his shears,
His thimble, his goose, and his needle, and hie
With all possible speed to the Convent hard by,
Requests him to say
That he begs they'll all pray,
Viz: The whole pious brotherhood, Cleric and Lay,
For the soul of an Old Woman clothed in grey,
Who was just at that time in a very bad way,
And he really believed could'nt last out the day;—
And to state his desire
That some erudite Friar,
Would run over at once, and examine, and try her;
For he thought he would find
There was "something behind,"
A something that weigh'd on the Old Woman's mind,—
"In fact he was sure, from what fell from her tongue,
That this little Old Woman had done something wrong."
—Then he wound up the whole with this hint to the man,
"Mind and pick out as holy a friar as you can!"

    * Alack for poor William Linley to settle the point! His elucidation of Macbeth's "Hurlyburly" casts a halo around his memory. In him the world lost one of its kindliest Spirits, and the Garrick Club its acutest commentator.
    † All who are familiar with the Police Reports, and other Records of our Courts of justice, will recollect that every gentleman of this particular profession invariably thus describes himself, in contradistinction to the Bricklayer, whom he probably presumes to be indigenous, and to the Shoemaker, born a Snob.

Now I'd have you to know
That this story of woe,
Which I'm telling you, happen'd a long time ago;
I can't say exactly how long, nor, I own,
What particular monarch was then on the throne,
But 'twas here in Old England: and all that one knows is,
It must have preceded the Wars of the Roses.*
Inasmuch as the times
Described in these rhymes,
Were as fruitful in virtues as ours are in crimes;
And if 'mongst the Laity
Unseemly gaiety
Sometimes betray'd an occasional taint or two,
At once all the Clerics
Went into hysterics,
While scarcely a convent but boasted its Saint or two;
So it must have been long ere the line of the Tudors,
As since then the breed
Of Saints rarely indeed
With their dignified presence have darken'd our pew doors.

    * "An antient and most pugnacious family," says our Bath Friend. "One of their descendants, George Rose, Esq., late M.P. for Christchurch (an elderly gentleman now defunct), was equally celebrated for his vocal abilities and his wanton destruction of furniture when in a state of excitement.—"Sing, old Rose, and burn the bellows!" has grown into a proverb.

—Hence the late Mr. Froude, and the live Dr. Pusey
We moderns consider as each worth a Jew's eye;
Though Wiseman and Dullman* combine against New-
With Doctors and Proctors, and say he's no true man.
—But this by the way,—The Convent I speak about
Had Saints in scores — they said Mass week and week
        And the two now on duty were each, for their piety,
        "Second to none" in that holy society,
        And well might have borne
        Those words which are worn
        By our "Nulli Secundus" Club—poor dear lost mut-
        Of Guardsmen—on Club days, inscribed on their but-
        They would read, write, and speak
        Latin, Hebrew, and Greek,
A radish-bunch munch for a lunch,—or a leek;
Though scoffers and boobies
Ascribe Certain rubies
That garnished the nose of the good Father Hilary
To the overmuch use of Canary and Sillery,
—Some said spirituous compounds of viler distillery—
Ah! little reck'd they
That with Friars, who say
Fifty Paters a night, and a hundred a day,
A very slight sustenance goes a great way—
Thus the consequence was that his colleague, Basilius,
Won golden opinions, by looking more bilious,
From all who conceived strict monastical duty
By no means conducive to personal beauty;
And being more meagre, and thinner, and paler,
He was snapt up at once by the bandy-legg'd Tailor.

    * The worthy Jesuit's polemical publisher.—I am not quite sure as to the orthography; it's idem sonans, at all events.

The latter's concern
For a speedy return
Scarce left the Monk time to put on stouter sandals,
Or go round to his shrines, and snuff all his Saint's
Still less had he leisure to change the hair-shirt he
Had worn the last twenty years—probably thirty,—
Which not being wash'd all that time, had grown dirty.
—It seems there's a sin in
The wearing clean linen,
Which Friars must eschew at the very beginning,
Though it makes them look frowsy, and drowsy, and
And—a rhyme modern etiquette never allows ye.—
As for the rest,
E'en if time had not prest,
It didn't much matter how Basil was drest,
Nor could there be any great need for adorning,
The Night being almost at odds with the Morning.

Oh! sweet and beautiful is Night, when the silver Moon is
And countless Stars, like clustering gems, hang sparkling
in the sky,
While the balmy breath of the summer breeze comes whisper-
ing down the glen,
And one fond voice alone is heard—oh! Night is lovely
But when that voice, in feeble moans of sickness and of
But mocks the anxious ear that strives to catch its sounds
in vain,—
When silently we watch the bed, by the taper's flickering
Where all we love is fading fast—how terrible is Night!!

More terrible yet,
If you happen to get
By an old woman's bedside, who, all her life long,
Has been, what the vulgar call "coming it strong"
In all sorts of ways that are naughty and wrong.—

As Confessions are sacred, it's not very facile
To ascertain what the old hag said to Basil;
But whatever she said,
It filled him with dread,
And made all his hair stand on end on his head,—
No great feat to perform, inasmuch as said hair
Being clipped by the tonsure, his crown was left bare,
So of course Father Basil had little to spare;
But the little he had
Seem'd as though 't had gone mad,
Each lock, as by action galvanic, uprears
In the two little tufts on the tops of his ears:—
What the old woman said
That so "fill'd him with dread,"
We should never have known any more than the
If the bandy-legg'd Tailor, his errand thus sped,
Had gone quietly back to his needle and thread,
As he ought; but instead,
Curiosity led,—
A feeling we all deem extremely ill-bred,—
He contrived to secrete himself under the bed!
—Not that he heard
One half, or a third
Of what passed as the Monk and the Patient conferred,
But he here and there managed to pick up a word,
Such as "Knife,"
And "Life,"
And he thought she said "Wife,"
And "Money," that source of all evil and strife;" *
Then he plainly distinguished the words "Gore," and
Whence he deem'd—and I don't think his inference'
She had cut some one's throat for the sake of his cash;

    * Effodiuntur Opes Irritamenta Malorum.
                                                          LILLY'S Grammar.

        Intermix'd with her moans,
        And her sighs, and her groans,
Enough to have melted the hearts of the stones,
Came at intervals Basil's sweet, soft, silver tones,
For somehow it happened—I can't tell you why—
The good Friar's indignation,—at first rather high,—
To judge from the language he used in reply,
Ere the Old Woman ceased, had a good deal gone by;
And he gently address'd her in accents of honey)
"Daughter, don't you despair!— WHAT'S BECOME
            OF THE MONEY?"
In one just at Death's door, it was really absurd
To see how her eye lighted up at that word—
Indeed there's not one in the language that I know,
(Save its synonyms "Spanish," "Blunt," "Stumpy," and
Which acts so direct,
And with so much effect
On the human sensorium, or makes one erect
One's ears so, as soon as the sound we detect—
It's a question with me
Which of the three,
Father Basil himself, though a grave S. T. P.
(Such as he have, you see, the degree of D.D.)
Or the eaves-dropping, bandy-legg'd Tailor,—or She
Caught it quickest—however traditions agree
That the Old Woman perk'd up as brisk as a bee,—

'Twas the last quivering flare of the taper,—the fire
It so often emits when about to expire!
Her excitement began the same instant to flag, She sank back, and whisper'd, "Safe!—Safe! in the

Now I would not by any means have you suppose
That the good Father Basil was just one of those
Who entertain views
We're so apt to abuse,
As neither befitting Turks, Christians, nor Jews,
Who haunt death-bed scenes,
By underhand means
To toady or teaze people out of a legacy,—
For few folk, indeed, had such good right to beg as he,
Since Rome, in her pure Apostolical beauty,
Not only permits, but enjoins, as a duty,
Her sons to take care
That, let who will be heir,
The Pontiff shall not he chous'd out of his share,
Nor stand any such mangling of chattels and goods,
As, they say, was the case with the late Jemmy Wood's;
Her Conclaves, and Councils, and Synods in short main
-tain principles adverse to statutes of Mortmain;
Besides you'll discern
It, at once, when you learn
That Basil had something to give in return,
Since it rested with him to say how she should burn,
Nay, as to her ill-gotten wealth, should she turn it all
To uses he named, he could say, "You shan't burn at all,
Or nothing to signify,
Not what you'd dignify
So much as even to call it a roast,
But a mere little singeing, or scorching at most,—
What many would think not unpleasantly warm,—
Just to keep up appearance—mere matter of form."
All this in her ear.
He declared, hut I fear
That her senses were wand'ring—she seem'd not to hear,
Or, at least, understand,—for mere unmeaning talk her
Parched lips babbled now,—such as "Hookey!"—and
—She expired, with her last breath expressing a doubt
If "his Mother were fully aware he was out?"

Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry—so
I must write it, my verse not admitting the 0—
But, as for the venue, I vow I'm perplext
To say if it's in this world, or if in the next—
Or whether in both—for 'tis very well known
That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own,
In a "tight little Island " that stands in a Lake
Call'd "Lough-dearg"— that's "The Red Lake," unless
            I mistake,—
In Fermanagh—or Antrim—or Donegal—which
I declare I can't tell,
But I know very well
It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch
(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer,
But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here).
There are some, I'm aware,
Who don't stick to declare
There's "no differ" at all 'twixt "this here" and "that
That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry
For the separate use of the "finest of pisentry,"
And that his is no more
Than a mere private door
From the rez-de-chaussée,—as some call the ground floor,—
To the one which the Pope had found out long before.

But no matter'—lay
The locale where you may;
—And where it is no one exactly can say—
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.
"Entertainment " there's worse
Both for "Man and for Horse;"
For broiling the souls
They use Lord Mayor's coals;—
Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower
It's by no means so strong—
Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong;
The "prokers" are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong;
The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth;—
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,
Made for what's called by Cockneys a "Minor The-átre."
Better suited, of course, for a "minor performer,"
Than the "House," that's so much better lighted and
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,—
—You understand where
I don't question—down there
Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inven-
The Paving Commissioners use "Good Intentions,"
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen
At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.

To go on with my story,
This same Purga-tory,
(There! I've got in the 0, to my Muse's great glory,)
Is close lock'd, and the Pope keeps the keys of it—that I
Boldly affirm—in his desk in the Vatican;
—Not those of St. Peter—
These of which I now treat, are
A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater—
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose—nor Bramah.
Now it seems that by these
Most miraculous keys
Not only the Pope, but his "clargy," with ease
Can let people in and out, just as they please;
And—provided you "make it all right" about fees,
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt,
Had brought matters about,
If the little old woman would but have "spoke out,"
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,
Or passes, which clear both the great gates and wickets;
So that after a grill,
Or short turn on the Mill,
And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in the "Lodge of Antiquity,"
She'd have rubb'd off old scores,
Popp'd out of doors,
And sheer'd off at once for a happier port,
Like a white-wash'd Insolvent that's "gone through the

But Basil was one
Who was not to be done
By any one, either in earnest or fun;—
The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun,
In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo,
Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it "No Go."
So, unless you're a dunce,
You'll see clearly, at once,
When you come to consider the facts of the case, he,
Of course never gave her his Vade in pace;
And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe,
The little old woman had no where to go!

For, what could she do?
She very well knew
If she went to the gates I have mention'd to you,
Without Basil's, or some other passport to show,
The Cheque-takers never would let her go through;
While, as to the other place, e'en had she tried it,
And really had wished it, as much as she shied it,
(For no one who knows what it is can abde it,)
Had she knock'd at the portal with ne'er so much din,
Though she died in, what folks at Rome call, "Mortal sin,"
Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in,
As she'd not been turn'd formally out of "the pale;—"
So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail,
In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail
Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail,
Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail;
Though, now he's grown older,
They say he's much bolder,
And his Holiness not only gets the "cold shoulder,"
But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a
Dump—that's the word—for his triple tiara.

Well—what shall she do?—
What's the course to pursue?—
"Try St. Peter?—the step is a bold one to take;
For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt, 'wide awake;'
But then there's a quaint
Old Proverb says 'Faint
Heart ne'er won fair Lady,' then how win a Saint?—
I've a great mind to try—
One can but apply;
If things come to the worst why he can but deny—
The sky
's rather high
To be sure—but, now I
That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,
I am just in the 'order' which some folks—though why
I am sure I can't tell you—would call 'Apple-pie.'
Then 'never say die!'
It won't do to be shy,
So I'll tuck up my shroud, and—here goes for a fly!"
—So said and so done—she was off like a shot,
And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.

When she drew so near
That the Saint could see her,
In a moment he frown'd, and began to look queer,
And scarce would allow her to make her case clear,
Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer,
With "It's all very well,—but you do not lodge here!"—
Then, calling her everything but "My dear!"
He applied his great toe with some force au derrière,
And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.

"Alas! poor Ghost!"
It's a doubt which is most
To be pitied—one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,—
Or one bandied about thus from pillar to post,—
To be "all abroad"—to be "stump'd" not to know
To go—so disgraced
As not to be " placed,"
Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, "To be No where."—
However that be,
The affaire was finie,
And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!

Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes—not the Jew—
That the "Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen
Having no other sort of asylum in view,
"Returns back again to the place whence she flew,"—
A fact which experience has proved to be true.—
Mr. Gray,—in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,—
Declares that our "wonted fires live in our ashes."*—
These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag,
The first to her mansion, the last to her bag,
When only conceive her dismay and surprise,
As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes,
When there,—on the spot where she'd bid her "supplies,"—
In an underground cellar of very small size,
Working hard with a spade,
All at once she surrey'd
That confounded old bandy-legged "Tailor by trade."

              * "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!"—GRAY
    "A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares!"—JOHNSON.

Fancy the tone
Of the half moan, half groan,
Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone!
As she stood there,—a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,—
Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone!
Although, as Macbeth says, "they'd no speculation,"
While she uttered that word,
Which American Bird,
Or James Fenimore Cooper, would render "Tarnation!!'
At the noise which she made
Down went the spade!—
And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd "Tailor by trade,"
(Who had shrewdly conjectured, from something that fell,
Deposit was somewhere concealed in the cellar:)
Turning round at a sound
So extremely profound,
The moment her shadowy form met his view
He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd " Bo-o—ho-o!"—
With a countenance Keeley alone could put on,
Made one grasshopper spring to the door—and was gone!
Erupit! Evasit!
As at Rome they would phrase it—
His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it,
Though elderly, bandy-legg'd, meagre, and sickly,
I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;—
He reach'd his own shop, and then fell into fits,
And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits,
While the chuckling old Hag takes his place, and there

I'll venture to say,
She'd sat there to this day,
Brooding over what Cobbett calls "vile yellow clay,"
Like a Vulture, or other obscene bird of prey,
O'er the nest-full of eggs she has managed to lay,
If, as legends relate, and I think we may trust 'em, her
Stars had not brought her another guess customer—
'Twas Basil himself !—
Come to look for her pelf:
But not, like the Tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel,
And grub in the cellar with pickaxe and shovel;
Full well he knew
Such tools would not do,—
Far other the weapons he brought into play,
Vis. a Wax-taper "hallow'd on Candlemas-day,"
To light to her ducats,—
Holy water, two buckets,
Made with salt—half a peck to four gallons — which
            brews a
(Strong triple X "strike,"—see Jacobus de Chusa.)
With these, too, he took
His bell and his book—
Not a nerve ever trembled,—his hand never shook
As he boldly march'd up where she sat in her nook,
Glow'ring round with that wild indescribable look,
Which Some may have read of, perchance, in "Nell
All, in "Martha the Gipsy" by Theodore Hook.

                                      * See page 121.

And now, for the reason I gave you before,
Of what passed then and there I can tell you no more,
As no Tailor was near with his ear at the door;
But I've always been told,
With respect to the gold,
For which she her "jewel eternal" had sold,
That the old Harridan,
Who, no doubt, knew her man,
Made some compromise—hit upon some, sort of plan,
By which Friar and Ghost were both equally-pinn'd—
Heaven only knows how the "Agreement" got wind;—
But its purport was this,
That the things done amiss
By the Hag should not hinder her ultimate bliss;
The cash from this time is
The Church's—impounded for good pious uses—
—Father B. shall dispose of it just as he chooses,
And act as trustee—
In the meantime that She,
The said Ghostess,—or Ghost,—as the matter may be,—
From 'impediment,' 'hindrance,' and 'let' shall be free,
To sleep in her grave, or to wander, as he,
The said Friar, with said Ghost may hereafter agree.—
Moreover—The whole
Of the said cash, or 'cole,'
Shall be spent for the good of said Old Woman's soul!

"It is farther agreed—while said cash is so spending,
Said Ghost shall be fully absolv'd from attending,
And shall quiet remain
In the grave, her domain,
To have, and enjoy, and uphold, and maintain,
Without molestation, or trouble or pain,
Hindrance, let, or impediment, (over again)
From Old Nick, or from any one else of his train,
Whether Pow'r,—Domination,—or Princedom,—or Throne,*
Or by what name soever the same may be known,
Howsoe'er called by Poets or styled by Divines,—
Himself,—his executors, heirs, and assigns.

    * Thrones! Dominations! Princedoms! Virtues! Powers!—MILTON.

    "Provided that,—nevertheless,—notwithstanding
All herein contained,—if whoever's a hand in
Dispensing said cash,—or said 'cole,'—shall dare venture
To misapply money, note, bill, or debenture
To uses not named in this present Indenture,
Then that such sum, or sums, shall revert, and come home
Back to said Ghost,—who thenceforward shall roam again,
Until such time, or times, as the said Ghost produces
Some good man and true, who no longer refuses
To put sum, or sums, aforesaid, to said uses;
Which duly performed, the said Ghost shall have rest,
The full term of her natural death, of the best,
In full consideration of this, her bequest,
In manner and form aforesaid,—as exprest:—
In witness whereof, we, the parties aforesaid,
Hereunto set our hands and our seals—and no more said;
Being all that these presents intend to express,
Whereas—notwithstanding—and nevertheless.

"Sign'd, sealed, and deliver'd, this 20th of May,
Anno Domini, blank, (though I've mentioned the day,)
          OLD WOMAN (late) CLOTHED IN GREY."

Basil now I am told,
Walking off with the gold,
Went and straight got the document duly enroll'd,
And left the testatrix to mildew and mould
In her sepulchre, cosey, cool,—not to say cold.
But somehow—though how I can hardly divine,—
A runlet of fine
Rich Malvoisie wine
Found its way to the Convent that night before nine,
With custards, and "flawns," and a "fayre florentine,"
Peach, apricot, nectarine, melon, and pine;—
And some half a score Nuns of the rule Bridgetine,
Abbess and all were invited to dine
At a very late hour,—that is after Compline.—
—Father Hilary's rubies began soon to shine
With fresh lustre, as though newly dug from the mine;
Through all the next year,
Indeed, 'twould appear
That the Convent was much better off, as to cheer,
Even Basil himself, as I very much fear,
No longer addicted himself to small beer;
His complexion grew clear,
While in front and in rear
He enlarged so, his shape seem'd approaching a sphere.

No wonder at all, then, one cold winter's night,
That a servant girl going down stairs with a light
To the cellar we've spoken of, saw, with affright
An Old Woman, astride on a barrel, invite
Her to take, in a manner extremely polite,
With her left hand, a bag, she had got in her right;—
For tradition asserts that the Old Woman's purse
Had come back to her scarcely one penny the worse!

The girl, as they say,
Ran screaming away,
Quite scared by the Old Woman clothed in grey;
But there came down a Knight, at no distant a day,
Sprightly and gay
As the bird on the spray,
One Sir Rufus Mountfardington, Lord of Foot's-cray,
Whose estate, not unlike those of most of our "Swell"
Was, what's, by a metaphor, term'd "out at elbows;"
And the fact was, said Knight was now merely delay'd
From crossing the water to join the Crusade
For converting the Pagans with bill, bow, and blade,
By the want of a little pecuniary aid
To buy arms and horses, the tools of his trade,
And enable his troop to appear on parade;
The unquiet Shade
Thought Sir Rufus, 'tis said,
Just the man for her money,—she readily paid
For the articles named, and with pleasure convey'd
To his hands every farthing she ever had made;
But alas! I'm afraid
Most unwisely she laid
Out her cash—the Beaux yeux of a Saracen maid
(Truth compels me to say a most pestilent jade)
Converted the gallant converter—betray'd
Him to do everything which a Knight could degrade,
—E'en to worship Mahound! — She required — He
The consequence was, all the money was wasted
On Infidel pleasures he should not have tasted;
So that, after a very short respite, the Hag
Was seen down in her cellar again with her bag.

Don't fancy, dear Reader, I mean to go on
Seriatim through so many ages by-gone,
And to bore you with names
Of the Squires and the Dames,
Who have managed, at times, to get hold of the sack,
But spent the cash so that it always came back;
The list is too long
To be given in my song,—
There are reasons beside, would perhaps make it wrong;
I shall merely observe, in those orthodox days,
When Mary set Smithfield all o'er in a blaze,
And show'd herself very se-
-vere against heresy,
While many a wretch scorned to flinch, or to scream, as
Burnt for denying the Papal supremacy,
Bishop Bonner the bag got,
And all thought the Hag got
Releas'd, as he spent all in fuel and faggot.—
But somehow—though how
I can't tell you, I vow—
I suppose by mismanagement—ere the next reign
The Spectre had got all her money again.

The last time, I'm told,
That the Old Woman's gold
Was obtained,—as before, —for the asking,—'twas had
By a Mr. 0—Something—from Ballinafad;
And the whole of it, so 'tis reported, was sent
To John Wright's, in account for the Catholic Rent,
And thus—like a great deal more money—it "went!"
So 'tis said at Maynooth,
But I cant think it's truth;
Though I know it was boldly asserted last season,
Still I can not believe it; and that for this reason,
It's certain the cash has got hack to its owner!"—
—Now no part of the Rent to do so e'er was known,—or,
In any shape, ever come home to the donor.

GENTLE READER!—you must know the proverb, I think—
"To a blind horse a Nod is as good as a Wink!"
Which some learned Chap,
In a square College cap,
Perhaps, would translate by the words "Verhum Sap!"

—Now, should it so chance
That you're going to France
In the course of next Spring, as you probably may,
Do pull up, and stay,
If but for a day,
At Dover, through which you must pass on your way,
At the York,—or the Ship,—where, as all people say,
You'll get good wine yourself, and your horses good hay,
Perhaps, my good friend, you may find it will pay,
And you cannot lose much by so short a delay.

First DINE!—you can do
That on joint or ragoût
Then say to the waiter,—" I'm just passing through,—
Pray,—where can I find out the old Maison Dieu?
He'll show you the street—(the French call it a Rue,
But you won't have to give here a petit ecu).

Well,—when you've got there,—never mind how you're
Ask boldly, "Pray, which is the house here that's haunted?"
—I'd tell you myself, but I can't recollect
The proprietor's name; but he's one of that sect
Who call themselves "Friends," and whom others call
You'll be sure to find out if you ask at the Baker's,—
Then go down with a light,
To the cellar at night!
And as soon as you see her don't be in a fright!
But ask the old Hag,
At once, for the bag!—
If you find that she's shy, or your senses would dazzle,
Nay, "Ma'am, I insist!—in the name of St. Basil!"
If she gives it you, seize
It, and—do as you please—
But there is not a person I've ask'd but agrees,
You should spend—part at least—for the Old Woman's
—For the rest—if it must go back some day—why—let it!—
Meanwhile, if you're poor, and in love, or in debt, it
May do you some good, and—
              I WISH YOU MAY GET IT!!!