Old Father Cungell went up to White Hall, Hum, ha! up to White Hall, And there he fell sick amongst 'em all, With my heigh down, ho down, Hum, Ha! Old Father Cungell was car-ri-ed home, Hum, ha! car-ri-ed home; Before he got there he was as dead as a stone, With my heigh down, ho down, Hum, Ha! Old Father Cungell was in the grave laid, They covered him up with shovel and spade, And out of his grave there grew a big tree That bore the best apples that ever ye see! Before they were ripe and fit for the fall, There came an old woman and stole them off all; Her gown it was red, her petticoat green, The very worst woman that ever was seen. Old Cungell got up and hit her a knock, That made the old woman go hipperty-hop. The neighbours were scared and said in their fright, 'The ghost of Cungell gets up in the night,' With my heigh down, ho down, Hum, Ha!" [Illustration: HAUGHMOND ABBEY, CHURCH DOORWAY.] Rested and refreshed I went in search of Haughmond Abbey, the ruins of which, though near to, are not visible from the road, so the casual traveller might pass them unawares, as doubtless many do. A short stroll along a shady footpath and by the side of a limpid stream soon brought me to the spot; the hoary, ivy-clad ruins peeping through the branching trees made a perfect picture, the sunshine resting on them and brightening the century-gathered gloom of their broken walls and rugged gables. It was, in truth, a pleasant spot the monks selected for their abbey, an ideal spot well secluded from the outer world; even to-day it retains its old-time tranquillity undisturbed. I had the ruins to myself, rejoiced to escape from the noisy prattle of the mere sightseer; to myself, excepting that some birds were holding a profane service on the grass-grown ground where erst the high altar stood. The ruins are of considerable extent, though, but for a portion of a wall and a fine sculptured doorway, the church itself has wholly disappeared; its foundations, however, may still be faintly traced. Unlike most abbeys the ruined churches of which remain whilst their monastic outbuildings and offices have vanished, at Haughmond the reverse is the case. So one generation builds a fane of prayer and another generation levels it to the ground, even glorying in its destruction; and the sad thought of it is, who can say that what we build in our pride to-day may not at some future time share a similar fate? Doubtless the monks who reared this stately abbey thought it would last to Doomsday; it lasted about four hundred years, for it was founded in 1135 by Fitz Alan of Clun, and was suppressed by King Henry VIII. in 1541, he "being mynded to take it into his own handes," as he did many another abbey, "for better purposes." The world knows what those "better purposes" were.