Our Norham vicar, woe betide, Is all too well in case to ride; The priest of Shoreswood-he could rein A welcome guest in hall and bower, In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, Old Bughtrig found him with his wife; Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 64 1 This churchman seems to have been akin to Welsh, the vicar of St Thomas of Exeter, a leader among the Cornish insurgents in 1549. This man," says Hollinshed, "had many good things in him. He was of no great stature, but well set, and mightilie compact: He was a very good wrestler; shot well, both in the long-bow, and also in the cross-bow; he handled his hand-gun and peece very well; he was a very good woodman, and a hardie, and such a one as would not give his head for the polling, or his beard for the washing. He was a companion in any exercise of activitie, and of a courteous and gentle behaviour. He descended of a good honest parentage, being borne at Peneverin, in Cornwall; and yet, in this rebellion, an arch-captain, and a principal doer."-Vol. iv., p. 958, 4to edition. This model of clerical talents had the misfortune to be hanged upon the steeple of his own church." * The reader needs hardly to be reminded of Ivanhoe. The jealous churl hath deeply swore, He shall shrieve penitent no more. Yet, in your guard, perchance will go." XXII. Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, And sweep at bowls the stake away. None can a lustier carol bawl, When time hangs heavy in the hall, And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, And we can neither hunt nor ride A foray on the Scottish side. The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, Let Friar John, in safety, still Last night, to Norham there came one, K 66 Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay, Well hast thou spoke; say forth thy say." XXIII. "Here is a holy Palmer come, From Salem first, and last from Rome; One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, And visited each holy shrine, In Araby and Palestine; On hills of Armenie hath been, The Mount, where Israel heard the law, Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell; And of that Grot where Olives nod, Where, darling of each heart and eye, Saint Rosalie retired to God.' 1 Sante Rosalia was of Palermo, and born of a very noble family, and, when very young, abhorred so much the vanities of this world, and avoided the converse of mankind, resolving to dedicate herself wholly to God Almighty, that she, by divine inspiration, forsook her father's house, and never was more heard of, till her body was found in that cleft of a rock, on that almost inaccessible mountain, where now the chapel is built; and they affirm she was carrie up there by the hands of angels; for that place was not formerly so accessible (as now it is) in the days of the Saint; and even now it is a very bad, and steepy, and break neck way. In this frightful place, this holy woman XXIV. To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, And warms itself against his nose, Kens he, or cares, which way he goes." XXV. "Gramercy!" quoth Lord Marmion, "Full loth were I, that Friar John, Were placed in fear or jeopardy. lived a great many years, feeding only on what she found growing on that barren mountain, and creeping into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, which was always dropping wet, and was her place of retirement as well as prayer; having worn out even the rock with her knees, in a certain place, which is now open'd on purpose to show it to those who come here. This chapel is very richly adorn'd; and on the spot where the Saint's dead body was discover'd, which is just beneath the hole in the rock, which is open'd on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue of marble, representing her in a lying posture, railed in all about with fine iron and brass work; and the altar, on which they say mass, is built just over it.-Voyage to Sicily and Malta, by Mr. John Dryden (son to the poet), p. 107. If this same Palmer will me lead From hence to Holy-Rood, Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, With angels fair and good. They bring to cheer the way." XXVI. "Ah! noble sir," young Selby said, And finger on his lip he laid, "This man knows much, perchance e'en more Than he could learn by holy lore. Still to himself he's muttering, And shrinks as at some unseen thing. Last night we listen'd at his cell; Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell, He murmur'd on till morn, howe'er I cannot tell-I like it not- |