What fires the youthful minstrel's lay Lit in De Thorold's eyes, It needs not, now, I soothly say: Sweet Edith had softly stolen away,-- And 'mid his own surprise, Blent with the boisterous applause That, instant, to the rafters rose, The baron his jealous thought forgot. Quickly, sithence a jocund note Was fairly struck in every mind, And jolly ale its power combined To fill all hearts with deeper glee,-- All wished for gleeful minstrelsy; And every eye was shrewdly bent On one whose caustic merriment At many a blythe Yule-tide had bin Compelling cause of mirthful grin To ancient Torksey's rustic folk. Full soon this sturdy summons broke From sire and son, and maid and mother:-- "Ho, ho! saint Leonard's fat lay brother! Why dost thou in the corner peep, And sipple as if half asleep Thou wert with this good nappy ale? Come, rouse thee! for thy sly old tale Of the Miller of Roche and the hornless devil, We'll hear, or we leave our Yule-night revel! Thy folded cloak come cast aside!-- Beneath it thou dost thy rebeck hide-- It is thy old trick--we know it well-- Pledge all! and thy ditty begin to tell!" "Pledge all, pledge all!" the baron cried; "Let mirth be free at good Yule-tide!" Then, forth the lay brother his rebeck drew, And athwart the triple string The bow in gamesome mood he threw,-- His joke-song preluding;-- Soon, with sly look, the burly man, In burly tones his tale began. The Miller of Roche.[12] THE LAY BROTHER OF SAINT LEONARD'S TALE. O the Prior of Roche Was without reproach While with saintly monks he chanted; But when from the mass He had turned his face, The prior his saintship scanted. O the Miller of Roche,-- I swear and avouch,-- Had a wife of nut-brown beauty; And to shrive her,--they say,-- The prior, each day, Came with zeal to his ghostly duty. But the neighbouring wives, Who ne'er shrove in their lives,-- Such wickedness Sathanas whispers!-- Said the black-cloaked prior By the miller's log fire, Oft tarried too late for vespers! O the thunder was loud, And the sky wore a shroud, And the lightning blue was gleaming; And the foaming flood, Where the good mill stood, Pell-mell o'er the dam was teeming. O the Miller, that night, Toiled on in a fright,-- Though, through terror, few bushels he grinded! Yet, although he'd stayed long, The storm was so strong That full loath to depart was he minded. Lo! at midnight a jolt, As loud as the bolt Of the thunder on high that still rumbled, Assailed the mill-doors, And burst them, perforce,-- And in a drenched beggar-lad stumbled! "Saint Luke and saint John Save the ground we stand on"-- Cried the Miller,--"but ye come in a hurry;" While the lad, turning pale, 'Gan to weep and to wail, And to patter this pitiful story: