At Bretton Hall, near Wakefield, known so well, Sir William Wentworth Blackett once did dwell; That mansion was his own; there, with his bride, In pomp and splendour, he did once reside. Yet, in the midst of all that he possest, A rambling mind disturb'd sir William's breast; His lady and his home he left behind; Says he, "The end of this wide world I'll find; The earth's extensive, but, you may depend on't, Before e'er I return, I'll find the end on't." So he embark'd on board a ship, we find, And, sailing, left her ladyship behind, Who oft in sorrow did his absence mourn, And sighing said, "Oh, that he would return! For, be his voyage rough or smooth at sea, It is a cruel bitter blast to me." Sir William, he rolls on through winds and waves; Undaunted, he all kinds of weather braves; Nor his strange project e'er relinquish'd he, Till one-and-twenty years he'd been at sea; Then, p'rhaps, he thought, "Good lack! the world is round; The end is nowhere--so it can't be found; And, as I'm weary of this wild-goose chase, At home again, e'er long I'll show my face." Then off he set, but little was aware, What would transpire on his arrival there: For while sir William rov'd as here express'd, Another "Sir," his lady thus address'd:-- "Sir William's gone, (ne'er to return again) Past this world's end, which long he sought in vain, There's not a doubt he's found the end of life; But don't be troubled; you shall be my wife." She listen'd, till at length she gave consent, And straightway to church then this couple went. Sir William does about this wedding hear, As he unto his journey's end draws near; And thus he does within his mind reflect:-- "This sly usurper I shall now detect: Soon shall he know, though much against his will, At Bretton hall I have dominion still; Those woods and fertile fields my own I call, With this magnificent, this splendid hall: And now I come to claim them as my own, Though, by my dress, not from a beggar known; My clothes are turn'd to rags, and, by the weather, My skin is tann'd till it resembles leather; So now I'll act the beggar bold and rude, And at this wedding boldly I'll intrude, And, though admittance I may be denied, I'll rob the merry bridegroom of his bride." Then at his own hall door one rap he gave, Resolv'd the inmates' charity to crave. So he presented his request, 'tis said, And they presented him--a crust of bread! The bread he took, and then, to their surprise, He ask'd the servants for some beer likewise. "No, no," said they, "beer we shall give you none; You saucy drunken vagabond, begone!" At length (with much ado) some beer he got, And quickly he return'd the empty pot; And straightway then into the hall went he, And said, he wish'd her ladyship to see. "You can by no means see her," answer'd they, "She's newly married! 'tis her wedding-day!"