He felt the cheering power of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him sing:
His heart was mirthful to excess,

But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,

And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose and burst around:

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;

He scoured the seas for many a day:

And now, grown rich with plundered store,

He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,

They cannot see the sun on high:
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong:
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair:

The waves rush in on every side;

The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for,
I could not well make out:
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by:

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby, died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be,

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he:

"It was a famous victory,

THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY

A BALLAD, SHOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO

RODE BEFORE HER

HE Raven croaked as she sate at her meal,

THE

And the Old Woman knew what he said:

And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,

And sickened, and went to her bed.

"Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,"
The Old Woman of Berkeley said;

"The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun,
Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead."

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun,
Their way to Berkeley went;

And they have brought, with pious thought,

The holy sacrament.

The Old Woman shrieked as they entered her door,
And she cried with a voice of despair,

"Now take away the sacrament,

For its presence I cannot bear!»

Her lip it trembled with agony;

The sweat ran down her brow:

"I have tortures in store for evermore;
But spare me, my children, now!»

Away they sent the sacrament:

The fit it left her weak;

She looked at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.

"All kind of sin I have rioted in,

And the judgment now must be;

But I secured my children's souls:
Oh, pray, my children, for me!

"I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat;
The fiends have been my slaves;
From sleeping babes I have sucked the breath;
And breaking by charms the sleep of death,

I have called the dead from their graves.

"And the Devil will fetch me now in fire,

My witchcrafts to atone;

And I, who have troubled the dead man's grave, Shall never have rest in my own.

"Bless, I entreat, my winding-sheet,

My children, I beg of you;

And with holy-water sprinkle my shroud,
And sprinkle my coffin too.

"And let me be chained in my coffin of stone; And fasten it strong, I implore,

With iron bars, and with three chains

Chain it to the church-floor.

"And bless the chains, and sprinkle them;
And let fifty Priests stand round,
Who night and day the Mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

"And see that fifty Choristers

Beside the bier attend me,

And day and night, by the tapers' light,

With holy hymns defend me.

"Let the church-bells all, both great and small, Be tolled by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come

To bear my body away.

"And ever have the church-door barred

After the even-song;

And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

"And let this be three days and nights,
My wretched corpse to save;

Till the fourth morning keep me safe,
And then I may rest in my grave."

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,

And her eyes grew deadly dim;

Short came her breath, and the struggle of death Did loosen every limb.

They blest the Old Woman's winding-sheet

With rites and prayers due;