quem misera mulier projecta, ab oculis assistentium evanuit. Audiebantur tamen clamores per quatuor fere miliaria horribiles, auxilium postulantes. Ista itaque quæ retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati Gregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclesiâ sepultam, a dæmonibus foras ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Martellus insignis vir fortudinis, qui Saracenos Galliam ingressos, Hispaniam redire compulit, exactis vitæ suæ diebus, in Ecclesiâ beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Sed quia patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ecclesiarum Galliæ, pro stipendio commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a malignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit. _Matthew of Westminster_. This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the _Nuremberg Chronicle_, from which the wooden cut is taken. A Ballad, Shewing how an old Woman rode Double, and who rode before her. The Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal, And the Old Woman knew what he said, And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale, And sicken’d and went to her bed. Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed, The Old Woman of Berkeley said, The monk my son, and my daughter the nun Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, Their way to Berkeley went, And they have brought with pious thought The holy sacrament. The old Woman shriek’d as they entered her door, ’Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, Now take the sacrament away For mercy, my children dear! Her lip it trembled with agony, The sweat ran down her brow, I have tortures in store for evermore, Oh! spare me my children now! Away they sent the sacrament, The fit it left her weak, She look’d at her children with ghastly eyes And faintly struggled to speak. All kind of sin I have rioted in And the judgment now must be, But I secured my childrens souls, Oh! pray my children for me. I have suck’d the breath of sleeping babes, The fiends have been my slaves, I have nointed myself with infants fat, And feasted on rifled graves. And the fiend will fetch me now in fire My witchcrafts to atone, And I who have rifled the dead man’s grave Shall never have rest in my own. Bless I intreat my winding sheet My children I beg of you! And with holy water sprinkle my shroud And sprinkle my coffin too. And let me be chain’d in my coffin of stone And fasten it strong I implore With iron bars, and let it be chain’d With three chains to the church floor. And bless the chains and sprinkle them, And let fifty priests stand round, Who night and day the mass may say Where I lie on the ground. And let fifty choristers be there The funeral dirge to sing, Who day and night by the taper’s light Their aid to me may bring. Let the church bells all both great and small Be toll’d by night and day, To drive from thence the fiends who come To bear my corpse away.