"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case!
There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain
His legs lie here and his arms lie there,
And his head lies—I can't tell your Holiness where!"
"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,
To hack and to hew A champion true
Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!—
A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights—
None of your rascally 'dips'—but sound,
Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;—
And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!—
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"
"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay!
Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
"No champion free of the Cross was he;
No belted Baron of high degree;
No Knight nor Squire Did there expire;
He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar!
And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait,
With his monks around him, and early and late,
May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
He hath lost his Prior—his Prior his pate!"
"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said,
And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head—
"Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas!
A horrible thing has come to pass!
What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior,
And say he was 'only (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'—
'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire
Is half so good as a holy Friar?'
O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!
Sceleratissime!—quissime!—issime!
Never, I trow, have the Servi servorum
Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum,
Such a gross violation of morum bonorum,
And won't have again sæcula sæculorum!—
Come hither to me, My Cardinals three,
My Bishops in partibus, Masters in Artibus,
Hither to me, A. B. and D. D.,
Doctors and Proctors of every degree!
Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell
As big as a dustman's!—and a candle as well—
I'll send him where—good manners won't let me tell!"
—"Pardon and grace!—now pardon and grace!"
—Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face—
"Mea culpa!—in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
Peccavi! peccavi!—I've done every wrong!
But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong,
And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long;
And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair,
And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where,
And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!"
Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down,
And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown,
And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.
"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong,
And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;—
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,—
Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me,
That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
And I think that the Penitent need not despair!
—If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray!
An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall's encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey, all the year round,
A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns,
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,
Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,
And gather the bones of the foully slain;
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights—
None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound,
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one,
For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!
And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb or shave,
Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy,
Nor indulge in a pipe— But shall dine upon tripe
And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
And forever abhor, renounce and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and liqueur!"
(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way
To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again,
And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
Mere repetition of O meâ culpâ!)
"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire,
And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear,
Any more from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an alias!
So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease,
And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"
Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
Is off like a shot away and away,
Over the brine To far Palestine,
To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.
"Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher,
Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar!
And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead,
And pick up his body and pick up his head!"