The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
A stalwart knight, I ween, was he,
“Come east, come west, Come lance in rest,
Come faulchion in hand, I'll tickle the best
Of all the Soldan's Chivalrie!”

Oh! they came west, and they came east,
Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least,
And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray,—
Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,—
But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint;
Twenty and three, Of high degree,

Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea,
All—all save one—and he ran up a tree!
“Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!
“Twenty and three! Twenty and three!—
All of them Nobles of high degree;
There they be lying on Ascalon lea!”

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
“What news? what news? come, tell to me!
What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?—
I've been whacking the foe, till it seems an age
Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free!
What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall?
Come tell me now, thou Page so small!”

“Oh, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,
Beast in byre, and Steed in stall;
And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark,
Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!”

—“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 nailed 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!”

“Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!”—
“One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!!”

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
“A boon, a boon, King Richard,” quoth he,
“Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave,
A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee;
A year and a day Have I been away,
King Richard from Ingoldsby Hall so free;
Dame Alice, she sits there in lonely guise,
And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs,
And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes,
And she darneth her hose, and she crieth ‘Alack!
Oh! when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?’
A boon, a boon, my Liege,” quoth he,
“Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!”

“Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,”
King Richard said right graciously,
“Of all in my host That I love the most,
I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee!
Rise up, rise up, thou hast thy boon;
But—mind you make haste, and come back again soon!”