How a _ci-devant_ Abbot, all clothed in drab, but Of texture the coarsest, hair shirt, and no shoes, (His mitre and ring, and all that sort of thing Laid aside,) in yon Cave lived a pious recluse; How he rose with the sun, limping "dot and go one," To yon rill of the mountain, in all sorts of weather, Where a Prior and a Friar, who lived somewhat higher Up the rock, used to come and eat cresses together; How a thirsty old codger, the neighbours called Roger, With them drank cold water in lieu of old wine! What its quality wanted he made up in quantity, Swigging as though he would empty the Rhine! And how, as their bodily strength fail'd, the mental man Gain'd tenfold vigour and force in all four; And how, to the day of their death, the "Old Gentleman" Never attempted to kidnap them more. And how, when at length, in the odour of sanctity, All of them died without grief or complaint; The Monks of St. Nicholas said 'twas ridiculous Not to suppose every one was a Saint. And how, in the Abbey, no one was so shabby As not to say yearly four masses a head, On the eve of that supper, and kick on the crupper Which Satan received, for the souls of the dead! How folks long held in reverence their reliques and memories, How the _ci-devant_ Abbot's obtain'd greater still, When some cripples, on touching his fractured _os femoris_, Threw down their crutches, and danced a quadrille! And how Abbot Simon, (who turn'd out a prime one,) These words, which grew into a proverb full soon, O'er the late Abbot's grotto, stuck up as a motto, "~Who suppes with the Deville sholde have a long spoone!!~" FOOTNOTES: [14] Parish. [15] The Prince of Peripatetic Informers, and terror of Stage Coachmen when such things were. Alack! alack! the Railroads have ruined his "vested interest." Rohesia, daughter of Ambrose, and sister to Sir Everard Ingoldsby, was born about the beginning of the 16th century, and was married in 1526, at St. Giles's, Cripplegate, in the City of London. The following narrative contains all else that is known of THE LADY ROHESIA. The Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed! So said the doctor,--and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters;--besides, Doctor Butts was the Court Physician: he carried a crutch-handled staff, with its cross of the blackest ebony,--_raison de plus!_ "Is there no hope, Doctor?" said Beatrice Grey. "Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby. "Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.--He was the Lady Rohesia's husband;--he spoke the last. The doctor shook his head: he looked at the disconsolate widower _in posse_, then at the hour-glass;--its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts was a very learned man. "_Ars longa, vita brevis!_" said Doctor Butts. "I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri.