"But in the morn you it shall all exhume If you will swear my body to entomb Within this spot, and faithfully incline To grant my dying wishes--then 'tis thine. I would the haughty Baron soon should know What hand it is has laid his glory low, That she it is whose hut he once destroyed Who now of heirs has made his house thus void.'' "She more had said, but sense appeared to stray, Yea, even life was ebbing fast away. 'Begone! begone!' was all she'd strength to say. I left, persuaded morn would see her clay. This morning early rising there I went, --To seek the money, p'rhaps, my chief intent-- When neither the hut could anywhere be found, Nor yet the old lady, or trace on the ground; So that really I thought, ere from slumber I woke, She had vanished away like a cigar, in smoke. "This then is, your rev'rence, the whole of my tale-- That I'm disappointed I greatly bewail, For I meant to enrich with this wealth given me (As a proof of my zeal) this great monastery." "And this," said the Abbot, "you plead in defence? I'm almost persuaded 'tis but a pretence; Yet, in justice, I cannot my credence refuse Until I discover my trust you abuse. But if ever in falsehood you once are found out, My anger would heavily fall there's no doubt. Then it was, after all, but a slumb'ring delusion,-- Just a slight indigestion, which caused this illusion? Still tell me, how is it I find you out here?" "To meditate, sir, on these doings so queer, I meant to devote a few moments to thought, To see if by chance I could recollect aught Of the hut's situation, as likely I might P'rhaps have lost the right track through the darkness of night, For the scenes of each action so plain to me seem, I can never believe 'twas a shadowy dream." "May I ask," said the Abbot, "what book you're perusing? I am sure 'tis instructive, I hope 'tis amusing." "Well really, your rev'rence, I can't say it aint, For 'tis an account of a very great saint, Who all kinds of evil with boldness defied, And ever was victor when battle he tried." Oh how heartily now the poor friar did wish He would go, for his foot was nigh crushing his fish; But suppose he had seen them, I have little doubt He'd have said that, unaided, the stream they crept out, For he ne'er could be trapped for the want of excuse; Yet was still his companion most anxious to lose, For the turn of a rush would have cost him his dinner. But kind Fate had determined he should not get thinner, For the Abbot departed without a word more, And so neither the fish nor the little hook saw, Which was dangling about--quite in sight you'll suppose, As he nearly was caught once or twice by the nose.