"There may it hang," cried that loathly knave, "And grin till its teeth be dry; While every day with jeer and taunt Will I mock it till I die!" The porter opened the wicket straight, And the messenger went his way, For he little guessed of the head that now In that basket of wicker lay. "We've killed the bird, but where's the egg?" Then cried those ruffians three. "Where is thy child?" The lady moaned, But never a word spake she. But, swift as an arrow, to his bed The lady in terror sprung; When, oh! a sorrowful dame was she, And her hands she madly wrung. "The babe is gone! Oh, spare my child, And strike my heart in twain!" To those ruthless men the lady knelt, But her piteous suit was vain. "Traitor!" they cried to that grim porter, "Whom hast thou suffered forth? If thou to us art false, good lack, Thy life is little worth!" "There's nought gone forth from this wicket yet," Said that grim and grisly knave, "But a little foot-page, with his master's head, That ye to his charges gave." "Thou liest, thou grim and fause traitor!" Cried out those murderers three; "The head is on his carcase yet, As thou mayest plainly see!" When the lady heard this angry speech, Her heart waxed wondrous fain; For she knew the page was a trusty child, And her babe in his arms had lain. "Where is the gowd?" said that grim porter, "The gowd ye sware unto me?" "We'll give thee all thine hire," said they; "We play not false like thee!" They counted down the red, red gold, And the porter laughed outright: "Now we have paid thy service well, For thy master's blood this night; "For thy master's blood thou hast betrayed, We've paid thee thy desire; But for thy treachery unto us, Thou hast not had thine hire." They've ta'en a cord, both stiff and strong, And they sought a goodly tree; And from its boughs the traitor swung;-- So hang all knaves like he! But the lady found her pretty babe;-- Ere the morning light was nigh, To the hermit's cell[7] that little page Had borne him craftily. And the mass was said, and the requiem sung, And the priests, with book and stole, The body bore to its cold still bed, "Gramercy on his soul!" [6] "Thomas, first Earl of Derby, as a compliment to his royal relative, Henry VII., on his visit to Lathom and Knowsley in 1496, built the bridge at Warrington; and by this munificent act conferred a benefit upon the two palatine counties, the value of which it is not easy to estimate."--Baines's _Lancashire_.