THE FRIAR AND THE NUN,

Said the Ghost of a Nun to a Friar Grey— "Dear brother, what changes we've seen! There's here to be built a New Market, they say, Which was once, you know, our bleaching green." Such were the sounds that smote on my ear, As I stray'd in the Nuns' Field one night,— And I sat down beneath an old elm-tree to hear, Though my hair stood on end at the sight. "There's nought," quoth the Friar, "but heaps of stones, Where oft I have stray'd as a sinner; The bell that once warn'd us to vespers and nones, Now warns Grainger's workmen of dinner. Alack! sister Anne, a heretic race, With aprons of blue, or of tartan,— Red night-caps for hoods, will soon take our place— But they all will be d——d for certain." "Dear brother," said she, "only think on this spot, Where our portion was penance and stripes, Old men will be crying, 'Hot pies here, all hot,' And women, 'Black-puddings and tripes.' Where we walk'd so devoutly, soon those who succeed us, In all worldly pride will soon strut on,— Where we utter'd our mournful Aves and Credos, Will hang rounds of beef and fat mutton." "Yes, sister," said he, "where we chaunted Te Deum, And sighed our prayer to the breeze,— Where we us'd to confess, ere long will we see 'em A chaunting lewd ditties and glees; The ground where we stand will be strew'd soon with buyers, Pursuing their ways so mistaken; Extinct is the race now of Holy Friars, Save those who are Fryers of Bacon. In spite of Sir Andrew, these sinful elves Will still buy and sell on a Sunday; But soon they'll be wandering ghosts, like ourselves— Sic transit gloria mundi." A low'ring black cloud—most dismal to see— Now hid the soft moon-beams so bright; And I rose from beneath an old elm-tree, For the Ghosts had vanish'd from sight.