"Grist!" the beggar-lad cried, "Lay your trembling aside, And tell me, my man, how ye like him. 'Twas well ye were cool: He'd have proved ye a fool,-- Had ye dar'd with the cudgel to strike him!" "By saint Martin!" Grist said, And, scratching his head, Seemed pondering between good and evil,-- "I could swear and avouch 'Twas the Prior of Roche,-- If thou hadst not said 'twas the Devil!" And, in deed and in sooth,-- Though a marvellous truth,-- Yet such was the Fiend's revelation!-- But think it not strange He should choose such a change:-- 'Tis much after his old occupation:-- An angel of light, 'Tis his darling delight To be reckoned--'tis very well tested:-- I argue, therefore, 'Twas not sinning much more, In the garb of a Prior to be vested. Though, with wink, nod, and smile-- O the world's very vile!-- Grist's neighbours told tales unbelieving,-- How the beggar, so shrewd, Monk and supper had viewed, And produced 'em!--the Miller deceiving! But I do not belong To that heretic throng Who measure their faith with their eyesight:-- Thus much I may say-- Grist's cottage of clay Never, now, doth the Prior of Roche visit:-- But, the sly beggar-lad, Be he hungry or sad, A remedy finds for each evil In the Miller's good cheer, Any day of the year;-- And though Joan looketh shy--_she is civil_! * * * * * The tale was rude, but pleased rude men; And clamorous many a clown grew, when The rebeck ceased to thrill: Ploughboy and neatherd, shepherd swain, Gosherd and swineherd,--all were fain To prove their tuneful skill. But, now, Sir Wilfrid waved his hand, And gently stilled the jarring band: "What ho!" he cried, "what ails your throats? Be these your most melodious notes? Forget ye that to-morrow morn Old Yule-day and its sports return,-- And that your freres, from scrogg and carr,[13] From heath and wold, and fen, afar, Will come to join ye in your glee? Husband your mirth and minstrelsy, And let some goodly portion be Kept for their entertainment meet. Meanwhile, let frolic guide your feet, And warm your winter blood! Good night to all!--For His dear sake Who bore our sin, if well we wake, We'll join to banish care and sorrow With mirth and sport again to-morrow!" And forth the Baron good Passed from his chair, midst looks of love That showed how truly was enwove Full, free, and heartfelt gratitude For kindly deeds, in bosoms rude. The broad hall-doors were open cast, And, smiling, forth De Thorold passed. Yet, was the crowning hour unflown-- Enjoyment's crowning hour!-- A signal note the pipe hath blown, And a maiden at the door Craves curtsied leave, with roseate blush, To bring the sacred missel-bush.