Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless!" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the said Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate In his left hand, out straight, As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull's-eye lantern,"--as placed By our own New Police,--in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him,"--so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!" Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might, Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still! Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail, They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail. What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guess'd, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd, and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they'd pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, nought avail'd.