Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold,
And he met his shepherd a going to fold:
'How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home;
What news do you bring us from good King John?'
‘Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,
That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
'The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crown of gold so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.
'The second, to tell him without any doubt,
How soon he may ride this whole world about;
And at the third question I must not shrink,
But tell him there truly what he does think.'
'Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet
That a fool he may learn a wise man wit?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
'Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,
I am like your lordship as ever may be ;
And if you will but lend me your gown
There is nine shall know us in fair London town.
'Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope.'
'Now welcome, sir Abbot,' the King he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.
'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of gold so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth.'
'For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I think thou art one penny worser than he'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,
'I did not think I had been worth so little!
Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,
How soon I may ride this whole world about.'
'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again ;
And then your Grace need not make any doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,
'I did not think it could be gone so soon.
Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.'
‘Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry ; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ;
But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.'
The King he laugh'd, and swore by the mass, 'I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!' 'Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read.'
'Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast shewn unto me;
And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King
John.'
THE FAIRIES
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men ;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old king sits;
He is now so old and grey
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again,
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men ;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
W. Allingham
THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE
A wonder stranger ne'er was known
Than what I now shall treat upon.
In Suffolk there did lately dwell
A farmer rich and known full well.
He had a daughter fair and bright,
On whom he placed his chief delight;
Her beauty was beyond compare,
She was both virtuous and fair.
There was a young man living by,
Who was so charmed with her eye,
That he could never be at rest;
He was by love so much possest.
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