Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar." If ever on polluted walls Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit, for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride! Lo where it comes!--the tempest lowers,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down--with the nests, and the rooks will fly!" Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Moldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown Bombazeen gown, Miter, and crosier, and all are flown! And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that gray and moldering wall. The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art-- Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now! No sound--good gracious!--what was that? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near and more near-- Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By abbots and abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life! Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."