The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair,
Pontiff proud, I ween, is he,
And a belted Knight, In armour dight,
Is begging a boon on his bended knee,
With signs of grief and sounds of woe
Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe.

“Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
In my fury and rage A little Foot-page
I have left, I fear me, in evil case:

A scroll of shame From a faithless dame
Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear:
I gave him a “lick” With a stick, And a kick
That sent him—I can't tell your Holiness where!
Had he as many necks as hairs,
He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!”

“Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up from thy bended knee:
Ill it beseems that a soldier true
Of holy Church should vainly sue:—
—Foot-pages, they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they,
Well mote we spare A Page—or a pair,
For the matter of that—Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
But stout and true Soldiers, like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a pater be said;
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!”

“Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
Dame Alice I found,— She sank on the ground,—
I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer, and mock, and scoff,
I twisted it on—till I twisted it off!—
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!'

“Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Why really I hardly know what to say:—
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.—
—Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray
For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
For a year, and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!”

“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 must thou 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, but 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 rais'd 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 a 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—
“Meâ culpâ!—in sooth I'm in pitiful case.
Peccavi! peccavi!—I've done very 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 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 pick'd 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,
Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross buns.
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 for ever 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 swallow'd it down, by an effort, again,
And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
Mere repetition of O, meâ culpâ!)

“Thrice three times upon 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 whipcord and wire;
And nor 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 may 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 higher 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!”

His brother Reginald, it would seem by the pedigree, disregarded this prohibition.