Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, 'Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, 'The first is to tell him there in that stead, 'The second, to tell him without any doubt, Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man wit ? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel. 'Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be ; And if you will but lend me your gown There is none shall know us in fair London town.' M 'Now horses and serving men thou shalt have, 'Now welcome, sir Abbot,' the King he did say, "Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day : For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. 'And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, 'For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think thou art one penny worser than he.' The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel, 'You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need not make any doubt The King he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone, 'Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry ; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.' The King he laugh'd, and swore by the mass, 'I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!' 'Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read.' 'Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.' Old Ballad LXXXI THE FAIRIES Up the airy mountain, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, High on the hill-top He is now so old and grey From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, By the craggy hill-side, Is any man so daring As dig one up in spite, Up the airy mountain, Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! W. Allingham LXXXII THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE A wonder stranger ne'er was known He had a daughter fair and bright, There was a young man living by, |