When we chanced late to come from the wake of old Wright.
For her pains were so bad
That she raved just like mad,
And called for a priest, though no priest could be had.
Still up in the morn she rose better than ever.
Pain never will kill her, I'm certain,—no, never!
She's my mother-in-law, sir, and not my own mother,
Or as welcome she'd be in this world as another."
("Oh, oh!" thought the Abbot, "the way's growing clearer!
I feared I had strayed—but I find the game nearer.")