—"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound, For Steed in stall, or for Watch-dog's bay: Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear; How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"— Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage, "What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page!"—
That little Foot-page full low crouch'd he, And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me: Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall, Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall: She sits alone, And she makes her moan; Dance and song She considers quite wrong; Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil; She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"
"Thou liest! thou liest, thou naughty Foot-page, Full loud dost thou lie, false Page, to me! There, in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest, What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near, That little Foot-page he blench'd with fear;
"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie? King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he, And tidings rare To him do I bear, And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"
"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page! No learned clerk, I trow, am I, But well, I ween, May there be seen Dame Alice's hand with half an eye; Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page, From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news; Although no clerk, Well may I mark The particular turn of her P's and her Q's!"
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, in his fury and rage, By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, And buffets,—and pinches his nose till he sneezes;— Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's-heads.
When the contents of the scroll met his view, Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, Backward he drew His mailed shoe, And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, I may not say whither—I never knew.
"Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain,— Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"
"Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!— Twenty and three?— —Stay—let me see! Stretched in his gore There lieth one more! By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and four! Twenty-four trunks, I ween, are there, But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! Ay, twenty-four corses, I rede, there be, Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"