"Though hither I stray in lowly array, I am a damsel of high degree; And the Compte of Eu, and the Lord of Ponthieu, They serve my father on bended knee! "Counts a many, and Dukes a few, A suitoring came to my father's Hall; But the Duke of Lorraine, with his large domain, He pleased my father beyond them all. "Dukes a many, and Counts a few, I would have wedded right cheerfullie; But the Duke of Lorraine was uncommonly plain, And I vowed that he ne'er should my bridegroom be! "So hither I fly, in lowly guise, From their gilded domes and their princely halls; Fain would I dwell in some holy cell, Or within some Convent's peaceful walls!" --Then out and spake that proud Lord Abbot, "Now rest thee, fair daughter, withouten fear. Nor Count nor Duke but shall meet the rebuke Of Holy Church an he seek thee here: "Holy Church denieth all search 'Midst her sanctified ewes and her saintly rams, And the wolves doth mock who would scathe her flock, Or, especially, worry her little pet lambs. "Then lay, fair daughter, thy fears aside, For here this day shalt thou dine with me!"-- "Now naye, now naye," the fair maiden cried; "In sooth, Lord Abbot, that scarce may be! "Friends would whisper, and foes would frown, Sith thou art a Churchman of high degree, And ill mote it match with thy fair renown That a wandering damsel dine with thee! "There is Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, With beans and lettuces fair to see: His lenten fare now let me share, I pray thee, Lord Abbot, in charitie!" --"Though Simon the Deacon hath pulse in store, To our patron Saint foul shame it were Should wayworn guest, with toil oppressed, Meet in his Abbey such churlish fare. "There is Peter the Prior, and Francis the Friar, And Roger the Monk shall our convives be; Small scandal I ween shall then be seen: They are a goodly companie!" The Abbot hath donned his mitre and ring, His rich dalmatic, and maniple fine; And the choristers sing, as the lay-brothers bring To the board a magnificent turkey and chine. The turkey and chine, they are done to a nicety; Liver, and gizzard, and all are there; Ne'er mote Lord Abbot pronounce _Benedicite_ Over more luscious or delicate fare. But no pious stave he, no _Pater_ or _Ave_ Pronounced, as he gazed on that maiden's face; She asked him for stuffing, she asked him for gravy, She asked him for gizzard;--but not for grace! Yet gayly the Lord Abbot smiled, and pressed, And the blood-red wine in the wine-cup filled; And he helped his guest to a bit of the breast, And he sent the drumsticks down to be grilled.