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A BALLAD

SHOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER.

THE raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
And the old woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the raven's tale,

And sicken'd 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 shriek'd as they entered her door,

'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,

"Now take the sacrament away

For mercy, my children dear!"

Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
"I have tortures in store for evermore,
Oh! spare me, my children, now!"

Away they sent the sacrament,

The fit it left her weak,

She look'd 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 suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,

I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

"And the Devil will fetch me now in fire
My witchcrafts to atone,

And I who have rifled the dead man's grave

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Shall never have rest in my own.

Bless, I intreat, 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 chain'd 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 taper's light
With holy hymns defend me.

"Let the church bells all, both great and small,

Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come

To bear my body away.

"And ever have the church door barr'd

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,

Keep me so long from the fiendish throng,
And then I may rest in my grave."

The old woman of Berkeley laid her down
And her eyes drew 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,

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,

And in the church with three strong chains
They chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty priests stood round,

By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred choristers

Beside the bier attend her,

Who, day and night, by the tapers' light,
Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the priest and choristers

It was a goodly sight,

Each holding, as it were a staff,

A taper burning bright.

And the church bells all, both great and small,
Did toll so loud and long,

And they have barr'd the church door hard,
After the even song.

And the first night the taper's light
Burnt steadily and clear,
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door

Like a long thunder peal,

And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day;
And undisturb'd the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray.

The second night the taper's light
Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbour's face

Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise

That the stoutest heart might shock,

And a deafening roar like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.

The monk and nun they told their beads

As fast as they could tell,

And aye as louder grew the noise

The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,
And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,
They never had prayed so before.

The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing
And the fifty priests they pray.

The third night, came and the tapers' flame
A hideous stench did make,

And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more,

And strokes as of a battering ram
Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer,
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.

The monk and nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground dismay'd,
There was not a single saint in heaven
Whom they did not call to aid.

And the choristers' song that late was so strong
Grew a quaver of consternation,

For the church did rock as an earthquake shock
Uplifted its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast
That shall one day wake the dead;

The strong church door could bear no more,
And the bolts and the bars they fled.

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