C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
A Lay of St. Nicholas
By Richard Harris Barham (Thomas Ingoldsby) (1788–1845)
“L
I am a-weary, and worn with woe;
Many a grief doth my heart oppress,
And haunt me whithersoever I go!”
“Now lithe and listen, Lord Abbot, to me!”—
“Now naye, fair daughter,” the Lord Abbot said,
“Now naye, in sooth it may hardly be.
Sage penitauncers I ween be they!
And hard by doth dwell, in St. Catherine’s cell,
Ambrose, the anchorite old and gray!”
Though sage penitauncers I trow they be;
Shrive me may none save the Abbot alone—
Now listen, Lord Abbot, I speak to thee.
Thy brow, to listen to shrift of mine!
I am a maiden royally born,
And I come of old Plantagenet’s line.
I am a damsel of high degree;
And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu,
They serve my father on bended knee!
A suitoring came to my father’s Hall;
But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain,
He pleased my father beyond them all.
I would have wedded right cheerfullie;
But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain,
And I vowed that he ne’er should my bridegroom be!
From their gilded domes and their princely halls;
Fain would I dwell in some holy cell,
Or within some Convent’s peaceful walls!”
“Now rest thee, fair daughter, withouten fear.
Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke
Of Holy Church an he seek thee here:
’Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams,
And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock,
Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs.
For here this day shalt thou dine with me!”—
“Now naye, now naye,” the fair maiden cried;
“In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be!
Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree,
And ill mote it match with thy fair renown
That a wandering damsel dine with thee!
With beans and lettuces fair to see:
His lenten fare now let me share,
I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!”
To our patron Saint foul shame it were
Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed,
Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare.
And Roger the Monk shall our convives be;
Small scandal I ween shall then be seen:
They are a goodly companie!”
His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine;
And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring
To the board a magnificent turkey and chine.
Liver, and gizzard, and all are there;
Ne’er mote Lord Abbot pronounce Benedicite
Over more luscious or delicate fare.
Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden’s face;
She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy,
She asked him for gizzard;—but not for grace!
And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled;
And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast,
And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.
Of Hippocras fine, or of Malmsey bright;
And aye, as he drained off his cup with a smack,
He grew less pious and more polite.
And she drank as Lady ought not to drink;
And he pressed her hand ’neath the table thrice,
And he winked as Abbot ought not to wink.
Sat each with a napkin under his chin;
But Roger the Monk got excessively drunk,
So they put him to bed, and they tucked him in!
And Simon the Deacon, with grief and surprise,
As he peeped through the key-hole, could scarce fancy real
The scene he beheld, or believe his own eyes.
He could not distinguish the words very plain,
But ’twas all about “Cole,” and “jolly old Soul,”
And “Fiddlers,” and “Punch,” and things quite as profane.
With fervor himself began to bless;
For he thought he must somehow have let the Devil in—
And perhaps was not very much out in his guess.
Blushing like scarlet with shame and concern;
The Archangel took down his tale, and in answer he
Wept (see the works of the late Mr. Sterne).
When, after a lapse of a great many years,
They booked Uncle Toby five shillings for swearing,
And blotted the fine out again with their tears!
His senses at first were well-nigh gone;
The beatified saint was ready to faint
When he saw in his Abbey such sad goings on!
There before, from the time that most excellent Prince,
Earl Baldwin of Flanders, and other Commanders,
Had built and endowed it some centuries since.
A startling sound from a powerful blow.—
Who knocks so late?—it is half after eight
By the clock,—and the clock’s five minutes too slow.
Been heard in St. Nicholas’s Abbey before;
All agreed “it was shocking to keep people knocking,”
But none seemed inclined to “answer the door.”
And the gate on its hinges wide open flew;
And all were aware of a Palmer there,
With his cockle, hat, staff, and his sandal shoe.
By toil and time on his brow were traced;
And his long loose gown was of ginger brown,
And his rosary dangled below his waist.
Except at a stage-play or masquerade;
But who doth not know it was rather the go
With Pilgrims and Saints in the second Crusade?
Across that oaken floor;
And he made them all jump, he gave such a thump
Against the Refectory door!
The Lord Abbot they all mote see;
In his hand was a cup and he lifted it up,
“Here’s the Pope’s good health with three!”
“Huzza! huzza! huzza!”
And one of the party said, “Go it, my hearty!”—
When outspake that Pilgrim gray—
Worn is my foot, and empty my scrip;
And nothing to speak of since yesterday noon
Of food, Lord Abbot, hath passed my lip.
And have visited many a holy shrine;
And long have I trod the sacred sod
Where the Saints do rest in Palestine!”—
And if thou in Paynim lands hast been,
Now rede me aright the most wonderful sight,
Thou Palmer gray, that thine eyes have seen.
Gray Palmer, that ever thine eyes did see,
And a manchette of bread, and a good warm bed,
And a cup o’ the best shall thy guerdon be!”
And I have seen many a wonderful sight;
But never to me did it happen to see
A wonder like that which I see this night!
With Prior and Friar,—a strange mar-velle!—
O’er a jolly full bowl, sitting cheek by jowl,
And hob-nobbing away with a Devil from Hell!”
And he pulled out a flask from beneath;
It was rather tough work to get out the cork,
But he drew it at last with his teeth.
He made a sacred sign;
And he dashed the whole on the soi-disant daughter
Of old Plantagenet’s line!
With a wild unearthly scream;
And fizzled, and hissed, and produced such a mist,
They were all half-choked by the steam.
Her beautiful nose to a horrible snout,
Her hands to paws, with nasty great claws,
And her bosom went in and her tail came out.
And her tusks and her teeth no man mote tell;
And her horns and her hoofs gave infallible proofs
’Twas a frightful Fiend from the nethermost hell!
His hat and his cockle; and, plain to sight,
Stood St. Nicholas’ self, and his shaven crown
Had a glow-worm halo of heavenly light.
But St. Nicholas lifted his holy toe,
And, just in the nick, let fly such a kick
On his elderly namesake, he made him let go.
For the foot flew up with a terrible thwack,
And caught the foul demon about the spot
Where his tail joins on to the small of his back.
Till into the bottomless pit he fell slap,
Knocking Mammon the meagre o’er pursy Belphegor,
And Lucifer into Beëlzebub’s lap.
That saved the Lord Abbot,—though breathless with fright,
In escaping he tumbled, and fractured his hip,
And his left leg was shorter thenceforth than his right!
On the banks of the Rhine, as he’s stopping to dine,
From a certain inn-window the traveler is shown
Most picturesque ruins, the scene of these doings,
Some miles up the river south-east of Cologne.
That there, in those walls all roofless and bare,
One Simon, a Deacon, from a lean grew a sleek one
On filling a ci-devant Abbot’s state chair.
Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt and no shoes
(His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing
Laid aside), in yon cave lived a pious recluse;
To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather,
Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher
Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together;
With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine!
What its quality wanted he made up in quantity,
Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine!
Gained tenfold vigor and force in all four;
And how, to the day of their death, the “Old Gentleman”
Never attempted to kidnap them more.
All of them died without grief or complaint,
The monks of St. Nicholas said ’twas ridiculous
Not to suppose every one was a Saint.
As not to say yearly four masses ahead,
On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper
Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead!
How the ci-devant Abbot’s obtained greater still,
When some cripples, on touching his fractured os femoris,
Threw down their crutches and danced a quadrille!
These words, which grew into a proverb full soon,
O’er the late Abbot’s grotto, stuck up as a motto,
“Who Suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!”