They burst the patent coffin first,

And they cut through the lead,

And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud
Because they had got at the dead.

And they allow'd the sexton the shroud,
And they put the coffin back,

And nose and knees they then did squeeze
in a sack.

The surgeon

The watchmen as they past along
Full four yards off could smell,
And a curse bestow'd upon the load
So disagreeable.

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back,
And they carved him bone from bone;
But what became of the surgeon's soul
Was never to mortal known.

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN.

I.

WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:
She never complains-but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.

II.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care;

Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek
Has the deathy pale hue of despair.

III.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the maniac has been.

The traveller remembers who journeyed this way
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,

As Mary the maid of the inn.

IV.

Her cheerful address filled her guests with delight
As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

V.

She loved; and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life:

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.

VI.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence with tranquil delight
They listened to hear the wind roar.

VII.

"Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the abbey!" his comrade replied; "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about.

VIII.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear,
For this wind might awaken the dead!"

IX.

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now.'
"Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied;
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow."

X.

Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?"
His companion exclaimed with a smile;

"I shall win,-for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the elder that grows in the aisle."

XI.

With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;

The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky
She shivered with cold as she went.

XII.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight;

Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.

XIII.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;

Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she past,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

XIV.

Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near
And hastily gathered the bough;

When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear:
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.

XV.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listened, nought else could she hear,

The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread

Of footsteps approaching her near.

XVI.

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there:

That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.

XVII.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by,-
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold,
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled-
She felt, and expected to die.

XVIII.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims; "nay, come on here, and hide The dead body," his comrade replies.

She beholds them in safety pass on by her side-
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,

And fast through the abbey she flies.

XIX.

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,

She gazed horribly eager around,

Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

XX.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;-

Her eyes from that object convulsively start,

[heart

For-O God! what cold horror then thrilled through her When the name of her Richard she knew!

XXI.

Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen;

His irons you still from the road may espy,

The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh,
Of poor Mary the maid of the inn.

DONICA.

In Finland there is a castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshow either the death of the governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water. It is reported of onte Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, "Fair maids, why keep you company with this dead virgin, whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.

The following ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a poem by Thomas Heywood, 1635.

HIGH on a rock whose castled shade
Darkened the lake below,

In ancient strength majestic stood
The towers of Arlinkow.

The fisher in the lake below
Durst never cast his net,
Nor ever swallow in its waves

Her passing wings would wet.

The cattle from its ominous banks
In wild alarm would run,

Though parched with thirst, and faint beneath
The summer's scorching sun.

For sometimes when no passing breeze
The long lank sedges waved,

All white with foam, and heaving high
Its deafening billows raved;

All when the tempest from its base
The rooted pine would shake,
The powerless storm unruffled swept
Across the calm dead lake.