"—Nay, nay, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, now send me not, I pray, Back by that Entry dark, for that you know's the nearest way; I dread that Entry dark with Jane alone at such an hour, It fears me quite—it's Friday night!—and then Nell Cook hath pow'r!"
"And, who's Nell Cook, thou silly child?—and what's Nell Cook to thee? That thou shouldst dread at night to tread with Jane that dark entrée?" —"Nay, list and hear, mine Uncle dear! such fearsome things they tell Of Nelly Cook, that few may brook at night to meet with Nell!"
"It was in bluff King Harry's days,—and Monks and Friars were then, You know, dear Uncle Ingoldsby, a sort of Clergymen. They'd coarse stuff gowns, and shaven crowns,—no shirts,—and no cravats; And a cord was placed about their waist—they had no shovel hats!
"It was in bluff King Harry's days, while yet he went to shrift, And long before he stamped and swore, and cut the Pope adrift; There lived a portly Canon then, a sage and learned clerk; He had, I trow, a goodly house, fast by that Entry dark!
"The Canon was a portly man—of Latin and of Greek, And learned lore, he had good store,—yet health was on his cheek. The Priory fare was scant and spare, the bread was made of rye, The beer was weak, yet he was sleek—he had a merry eye.
"For though within the Priory the fare was scant and thin, The Canon's house it stood without;—he kept good cheer within; Unto the best he prest each guest with free and jovial look, And Ellen Bean ruled his cuisine.—He called her 'Nelly Cook!'
"For soups, and stews, and choice ragouts, Nell Cook was famous still; She'd make them even of old shoes, she had such wond'rous skill: Her manchets fine were quite divine, her cakes were nicely brown'd, Her boil'd and roast, they were the boast of all the 'Precinct' round;
"And Nelly was a comely lass, but calm and staid her air, And earthward bent her modest look—yet she was passing fair; And though her gown was russet brown, their heads grave people shook: —They all agreed no Clerk had need of such a pretty Cook.
"One day—'twas on a Whitsun-Eve—there come a coach and four;— It pass'd the 'Green-Court' gate, and stopp'd before the Canon's door; The travel-stain on wheel and rein bespoke a weary way,— Each panting steed relax'd its speed—out stept a Lady gay.
"'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece,'—the Canon then did cry, And to his breast the Lady prest—he had a merry eye,— 'Now, welcome! welcome! dearest Niece! in sooth thou'rt welcome here, 'Tis many a day since we have met—how fares my Brother dear?'—