As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sun was sinking,
Oh, merrie sang that Birde, as it glittered on her breast
With a thousand gorgeous dyes;
While soaring to the skies,
’Mid the stars she seemed to rise,
As to her nest;
As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was exprest:—­
“Follow me away,
It boots not to delay,”—­
’Twas so she seemed to saye,
“HERE IS REST!”

THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT

OR

THE DEVIL’S DINNER-PARTY

A LEGEND OF THE NORTH COUNTREE

Nobilis quidam, cui nomen Monsr.  Lescrop, Chivaler, cum invitasset convivas, et, hora convivii jam instante et apparatu facto, spe frustratus esset, excusantibus se convivis cur non compararent, prorupit iratus in haec verba:  “Veniant igitur omnes daemones, si nullus hominum mecum esse potest!”

Quod cum fieret, et Dominus, et famuli, et ancillae, a domo properantes, forte obliti, infantem in cunis jacentem secum non auferent, Daemones incipiunt commessari et vociferari, prospicereque per fenestras formis ursorum, luporum, felium, et monstrare pocula vino repleta. Ah, inquit pater, ubi infans meus? Vix cum haec dixisset, unus ex Daemonibus ulnis suis infantem ad fenestram gestat, etc.—­Chronicon de Bolton.

       It’s in Bolton Hall, and the clock strikes One,
       And the roast meat’s brown and the boiled meat’s done,
       And the barbecued sucking-pig’s crisped to a turn,
       And the pancakes are fried and beginning to burn;
               The fat stubble-goose
               Swims in gravy and juice,
       With the mustard and apple-sauce ready for use;
       Fish, flesh, and fowl, and all of the best,
       Want nothing but eating—­they’re all ready drest,
       But where is the Host, and where is the Guest?

Pantler and serving-man, henchman and page
Stand sniffing the duck-stuffing (onion and sage),
And the scullions and cooks,
With fidgety looks,
Are grumbling and mutt’ring, and scowling as black
As cooks always do when the dinner’s put back;
For though the board’s deckt, and the napery, fair
As the unsunned snow-flake, is spread out with care,
And the Dais is furnished with stool and with chair,
And plate of orfeverie costly and rare,
Apostle-spoons, salt-cellar, all are there,
And Mess John in his place,
With his rubicund face,
And his hands ready folded, prepared to say Grace,
Yet where is the Host?—­and his convives—­where?

       The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall,
       And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall,
       He watches the large hand, he watches the small,
               And he fidgets and looks
               As cross as the cooks,
       And he utters—­a word which we’ll soften to “Zooks!”