Part 13 (1/2)

Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd, And sinks beneath the shockke: She weeps from morn to eventyd, And then till crowe of c.o.c.kke.

Again the sun returns, but though The merrie morninge smiles, No c.o.c.kke will crow, no bulle will low Agen for pore Sir Gyles.

And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste, Is layd in hallowed mould; All in the mynstere crypt, where rest His gallant sires and old.

But first they take the olde bulle's skin And crest, to form a shroud: And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein His people wepe aloud.

Sir Valentyne doth well incline To soothe my lady's woe; And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe, An all the c.o.c.kkes sholde crowe.

Ay soone they are in wedlock tied, Full soon; and all, in fyne, That spouse can say to chere his bride, That sayth Sir Valentyne.

And gay agen are maids and men, Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes, Though Valentyne may trembel when He sees a bulle with hornnes.

My wife and I once visited The scene of all this woe, Which fell out (so the curate said) Four hundred years ago.

It needs no search to find a church Which all the land adorns, We pa.s.sed the weir, I thought with fear About the _olde bulle's hornnes_.

No c.o.c.k then crowed, no bull there lowed, But, while we paced the aisles, The curate told his tale, and showed A tablet to Sir Giles.

”'Twas raised by Lady Giles,” he said, And when I bent the knee I Made out his name, and arms, and read, HIC JACET SERVVS DEI.

Says I, ”And so he sleeps below, His wrongs all left behind him.”

My wife cried, ”Oh!” the clerk said, ”No, At least we could not find him.

”Last spring, repairing some defect, We raised the carven stones, Designing to again collect And hide Sir Giles's bones.

”We delved down, and up, and round, For many weary morns, Through all this ground; but only found An ancient pair of horns.”

MY FIRST-BORN.

”He shan't be their namesake, the rather That both are such opulent men: His name shall be that of his father,-- My Benjamin--shortened to Ben.

”Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relative's wills, I scorn such baptismal extortion-- (That creaking of boots must be Squills).

”It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his age will adorn; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,-- I wonder how soon he'll be born!”

A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below--'twas a labour of love,-- And calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above;

Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone; That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own;

Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner Than paltry ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself.