Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
The post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:—
"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!"
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury.
AN ancient story I'll tell you anon,
Of a notable Prince, that was called King John;
He ruled our England with main and with might,
But he did great wrong, and maintained little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;
How for his housekeeping and high renown,
They rode post to bring him to London town.
A hundred men, as the King heard say,
The Abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty gold chains, without any doubt,
In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.
"How now, Father Abbot? I hear it of thee,
Thou keepest a far better house than me;
And for thy housekeeping and high renown,
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were known,
I am spending nothing but what is my own;
And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear
For spending my own true-gotten gear."
Father Abbot, thy fault is high,
And now for the same thou needest must die;
And except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head struck off from thy body shall be.
"And first," quo' the King, "as I sit here,
With my crown of gold on my head so fair,
Among all my liegemen of noble birth,
Thou must tell to one penny what I am worth.
"Secondly, tell me, beyond all doubt,
How soon I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly, what do I think?"
"O these are deep questions for my shallow wit,
And I cannot answer your Grace as yet:
But if you will give me a fortnight's space,
I'll do my endeavours to answer your Grace."
"Now a fortnight's space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest thou hast to live;
For unless thou answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy lands are forfeit to me."
Away rode the Abbot, all sad at this word;
He wrote to Cambridge and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could by his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the Abbot, with comfort so cold, And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold:
"Now, good Lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from great King John?”
"Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give ;
That I have but three days more to live.
I must answer the King his questions three,
Or my head struck off from my body shall be.
"The first is to tell him, as he sits there,
With his crown of gold on his head so fair,
Among all his liegemen of noble birth,
To within one penny what he is worth.
"The second to tell him, beyond all doubt,
How soon he may ride this whole world about;
And at question the third I must not shrink,
But tell him there truly, what does he think?"
"O cheer up, my Lord; did you never hear yet
That a fool may teach a wise man wit?
Lend me four serving-men, horse, and apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
"With your pardon, it oft has been told to me
That I'm like your lordship as ever can be :
And if you will but lend me your gown,
There is none shall know us at London town."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous raiment gallant and brave;
With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to draw near to our Father the Pope."
"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, as thou seest me sitting here,
With my crown of gold on my head so fair,
Among all my liegemen of noble birth,—
Tell to one penny what I am worth?"
"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 worse than he."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittle,
"I did not think I was worth so little!
Now secondly, tell me, beyond all doubt,
How soon I may ride this world about?"
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth again;
And then your Grace need never doubt
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
"I did not think I could do it so soon!
Now from question the third thou must not shrink,
But tell me truly, what do I think?"
66 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 laughed, and swore by the mass,
66 I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!"
"Now nay, my Liege, be not in such speed;
For, alas! I can neither write nor read."
66 Four nobles a week then I'll give to thee,
For this merry jest thou hast shown to me;
And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home,
Thou hast brought him free pardon from King John!"
The Retired Cat.
A POET'S cat, sedate and grave,
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to enquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick—
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learned it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watched the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot:
There, wanting nothing save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan,
Apparelled in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wished instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India for the ladies' use,
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there.
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Surveyed the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined,
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