A FAIRY SCENE IN A WOOD

Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats, and some keep back The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices and let me rest.

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh: So good-night, with lullaby. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.

Hence, away! now all is well: One aloof stand sentinel.

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut!"

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there be, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar:— The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;— The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!

Eleven men of England A breastwork charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain. Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell. The robber-chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead; "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast forever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill. "Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honor Were framed for fearless men. "Still, when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist— Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting color, The green one, or the red?" "Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wear Their green reward," each noble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?" Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim. Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, "The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do? "These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod. "As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death. "If I were now to ask you, To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They call'd him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand. "The songs they sing of Roostum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living, And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?" And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave, As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done." "Enough!" he shouted fiercely; "Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round both wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiend's flaming den?" Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern "Amen!" They raised the slaughter'd sergeant, They raised his mangled ten. And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around both wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined.

God of our fathers, known of old— Lord of our far flung battle-line— Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies— The captains and the kings depart— Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, A humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! Far-called our navies sink away— On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard— For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.

I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wing so strong as this of mine. The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet, A star above the coming sun. For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious upward instinct drawn; No bee nestles deeper in the flower Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead; The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye.

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine: And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low. Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower. It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse. Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god.

'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand However you can be "At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn: "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. "Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'— 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do; For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can—and will—cook you!' "So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley, too. "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And—as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see! "'And I never larf, and never smile, And I never lark nor play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have—which is to say: "'Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!'"

If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why he couldn't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try,— If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green; The son of a farmer,—age fourteen; His body was long and lank and lean,— Just right for flying, as will be seen; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry;—for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Daedalus of yore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion, That the air was also man's dominion, And that with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late should navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me; And, if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it: "The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin, "'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? Jest show me that! er prove 't bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat, An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" He argued further: "Ner I can't see What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;— Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is? That Icarus was a silly cuss,— Him an' his daddy Daedalus; They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks: I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other." And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand. They'd 'a' laft an' made fun O' Creation itself afore it was done!" So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely buttoned within his vest; And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, And all such things as geniuses use;— Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as Some wire, and several old umbrellas; A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; A piece of harness; and straps and strings; And a big strong box, in which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk Around the corner to see him work,— Sitting cross-leggèd, like a Turk, Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; And a bucket of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly! And, whenever at work he happened to spy, At chink or crevice a blinking eye, He let a dipper of water fly: "Take that! an', ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks his big strong box; "The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' he is leetle an' long an' slim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, An', ef yeou'll be advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketching him!" So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 'twas done,— The greatest invention under the sun. "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!" 'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by, Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show: I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! An' then, when the folks have all gone off, I'll hev full swing fer to try the thing, An' practyse a little on the wing." "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. "No; botheration! I've got sich a cold—a toothache—I— My gracious! feel's though I should fly!" Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go." But Darius said, "No! Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head." For all the while to himself he said,— "I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems; then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation, By flying over the celebration! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'What world's this here that I've come near?' Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!" He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What on airth is he up to, hey?" "Don'o',—the's suthin' er other to pay, Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye! He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hadn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn, An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. And there they hid; and Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark," said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see." As knights of old put on their mail,— From head to foot in an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail,— (I believe they call the thing a helm,—) And, thus accoutred, they took the field, Sallying forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm; So this modern knight prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight— Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,— Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,— Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm he had, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. "Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the shed! He's opened the winder,—I see his head! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near;— Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's climbin' out now—Of all the things! What's he got on? I vum, it's wings! An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail! And there he sets like a hawk on a rail! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength, Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by; But the's o'ny a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see—The dragon! he's goin' to fly! Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop—flop—an' plump to the ground with a thump! Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!" As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere,— Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,— So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting stars, and various things,— Barnyard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow flew the calf, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying; "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff, "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight O' fun in't when ye come to light." I just have room for the MORAL here: And this is the moral,—Stick to your sphere; Or, if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is,—Take care how you light.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Obeyed Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, "Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last Llewellyn's horn to hear. "Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam. The flow'r of all his race, So true, so brave,—a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?" 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gêlert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentineled his bed. In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gêlert could be found, And all the chase rode on. And now, as o'er the rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells The many-mingled cries! That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart and hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gêlert was not there. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gêlert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But, when he gained his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; His lips, his fangs, ran blood. Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise; Unused such looks to meet, His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet. Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed, And on went Gêlert too; And still, where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child,—no voice replied— He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child. "Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured," The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gêlert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gêlert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell, To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed. Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, But, the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death. Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewellyn's heir: Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe; "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic blow which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue." And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gêlert's bones protect. There, never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And there he hung his horn and spear, And there, as evening fell, In fancy's ear he oft would hear Poor Gêlert's dying yell. And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of "Gêlert's Grave."

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong and maintein'd little right. And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. "How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will do me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." "Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crown of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. "Secondlye tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole worlde about. And at the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace." "Now three weekes space to thee will I give, And that is the longest thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee." Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shephard a-going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good King John?" "Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie. "The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so faire on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe, To within one penny of what he is worthe. "The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole worlde about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke." "Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. "Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee; And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne." "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." "Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. "And, first, when thou see'st me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worthe." "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than Hee." The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about." "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be done so soone! —Now from the third question you must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "Yes, that shall I do and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterburye; But I'm his poor shephard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, "I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Now nay, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." "Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."