Soon the Friar's boat came her bower beneath, While Sebastian's rock was silent as death, And gloomy, and steep. Soft she descended, while, close to her breast, Her baby lay asleep; Gentlest innocent, long is thy rest, Long, long in the deep! O Friar! the depth of Sebastian's wave Cannot cover the crime or the little one's grave. Light the little boat skimmed the moon-covered sea, Guilt fell dark on the dawn that pointed their way. Woe followed their flight: Soon they were brought to St. Benedict's tower— The deed came to light. Down to the dungeon the lovers they bore On St. Benedict's night. The lamp of religion had scarcely a ray To chase the deep gloom of their prison away. None can tell of the fate that either befell; Yet on holy record 'tis noted full well In Benedict's tower. Often the sentinel, trembling, fears The matin-bell hour: Often the sentinel fancies he hears Heaven's punishing pow'r; And the moans of dying grow loud in his mind, As the Friar and Lady flit by on the wind. At the conclusion of this ballad, the door of the guard-house flew open, and the noise which it made, together with the sudden flapping of the window-shutters, astonished the whole guard, and terrified one or two. The wind roared, the night was as dark as chaos, and the song had wound the soldiers' minds up to a climax. They, for an instant forgot themselves, when the door was thrown open. Perhaps they expected a visit from the Friar himself, accompanied by the Lady, to remonstrate with them on the impropriety of thus disturbing their departed spirits. There was no very great demonstration of fear; but even soldiers—and soldiers used to behold the dying and the dead, cannot be always prepared against the effects of romance and music allied against them. None fell from their seats, nor was any stool overturned; but there was a certain shuffling and huddling up together, which sufficiently demonstrated to the sentry at the door, that his trick (for _he_ was the ghost that opened the door,) had the effect he intended. He laughed without, and the guard laughed within; but none had the _right of laugh_ except the sentry himself; which, to do him justice, he rightly enjoyed. “Shut the door, then, God dom ye! for a blatherinskate, and mind yar duty,” roared out Sergeant M'Fadgen to the sentry, who obeyed the peremptory words as soon as he had expended his laugh in the dark; and order thus being restored, Jack Andrews was unanimously requested to tell the story of the “_Friar and the Lady_,” as he heard it at St. Sebastian: to this he assented, and gave it in something like the following words:—