God has adjudged her pure. Look, fool!
Your sinless lady calm and white:
Dead-dead! her soul has flown to rest-
Gone to the angels of light-

And here the toad I crush, his viperous mouth
Silent at last-so let him rot.

Who says this holy saint was ever false?
He lies, lies, lies, for she was not.

Perish thy gold-I want no fees—
Or give it to the priest to sing
Masses for this dead angel's soul,

Where the old bell may jog and ring.
Good-bye, old Roger, I'm bound over sea;
Yes, Cyprus 'gainst the Turk-O sot,
And see so dear a lady dead. Farewell!

Once more, who calls her false? I proved her

not.

THE CONVENT DRUDGE.

(Temp. Alfred.)

No, do not jeer; my brain is old and strained
With many years of trouble, so 'twill not bend
To these new labours. This King David psalm
I cannot learn; and when I reach the end,
The prelude I forget. But do not, brothers, mock,
I know the chapel boys can run it off

While I am tracing every letter's rim

With my chopped finger; but yet do not scoff, My sense is dull-this horny eye grows dim.

I was a sea-king once, and drove the keel Through sand and wrack, and now the convent's drudge,

I split the firing-wood, and wash the bowl,

And clean the Abbot's horse, and do not grudge, Knowing dear Jesus died upon the tree For serf as well as jarl, although the prior Smite my thin cheek because I try to sing, And do it hoarsely, putting out the quire.

L

Sometimes, all weary with this toil of brain,
I let my psalter drop, and fall asleep

Under the Abbot's desk, and dream of seas
Frothed white with the rough wind that ploughs

so deep

Round Arrow Point.

I start and shout,

blow

The organ's like the breeze,

"Luff, luff;" and a rough

Drives me awake, and then the broad sunshine Falls on me, and when I wake, as if in heaven, They send me out to prune the hill-side vine.

And when I sit me down beside the stub,

To prune, and rest, and try to read the hymn, The chapel boys draw round and point and mock: And if I chase them from the copse-wood dim, Sing their lewd songs, and call me "Danish churl,” "Ale-bibbing Dane," and "Pirate," bid me go And watch the wreck, or strip the dying serf. They steal my meal, and give me mock and

blow.

Yet I am happy when the windows shine,
And the strong organ thunders jar the quire,
When the angelic voices soar and rise,
And perfume rises from the incense fire;

Then sound, and scent, and colours fill the sense
With Paradise delights, and David's songs

Go up and cleave the sky, and seraphs come
And fill the place, and mingle with the throngs.

"The Danes!" what! Norsemen clashing at the gate? Thank God, I die a saint. Bring me the axe I threw by when I sought this convent gate: Where are those scoffers now ? I pay the tax, And lead the sally. Soon a martyr's blood, Shall save the shrine.

men,

Look out the stoutest

And arm. Quick, quick, bring out the good king's

crown,

The relics, and the image; to his den

We will drive Odin down-ye pagans, down.

THE SUICIDE IN DRURY-LANE.

(1856.)

66

DONE!" the tired sexton said, and dug his spade A foot deep in the plashy London clay.

66

What's his name?-Mitchell.

throat;

Oh, ah! cut his

Shovel him in, of course, the usual way.

What was his age?-Eighteen. Why, what a fool!
O drat these nettles, how the beggars sting!
You haven't got a sixpence? When I've done,
An' O be joyful's what I always sing.

The Jolly Brewer's handy-so it is.

O curse this drizzle! how I reek and sweat!
The ground, you see's so greasy hereabout,
For we are over-crowded-three deep; yet
I will be bound the parish would find room,
If one-third Leper-lane were to hop off.
Look at this skull, it's my old friend, the groom's.