Come clad in Scotch attire,
The Ritter’s colour went and came,
And loud he spoke in ire.
“Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Name not her name to me;
I wish it blotted from my brain:
Art poor?—take alms, and flee.”
“Sir Knight,” the Abbot interposed,
“This case your ear demands;”
And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed