An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey all the year round, A full choir of monks, and a full choir of nuns, Shall live upon cabbage and hot-cross-buns; And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain: And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights Shall be there o' nights; None of your rascally '_dips_,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon! And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb, or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe,-- But shall dine upon tripe, And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And for ever abhor, renounce, and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch, and _liqueur_!" (Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallow'd it down, by an effort, again, And his Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a More repetition of _O, meâ culpâ!_) "Thrice three times upon Candlemas-day, Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may, Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack, Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar, With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire; And nor he, nor his heir[32] Shall take, use, or bear Any more, from this day, The surname of Bray, As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_! So his qualms of conscience at length may cease, And Page, Dame, and Prior shall rest in peace!" Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain. "Look out, my Squire, Look higher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar! And pick up the arms, and the legs, of the dead, And pick up his body, and pick up his head!" FYTTE III.