Now Ladye Gyles is sorelie tryd, And sinks beneath the shockke: She weeps from morn to eventyd, And then till crowe of c.o.c.kke.

Again the sun returns, but though The merrie morninge smiles, No c.o.c.kke will crow, no bulle will low Agen for pore Sir Gyles.

And now the knyghte, as seemeth beste, Is layd in hallowed mould; All in the mynstere crypt, where rest His gallant sires and old.

But first they take the olde bulle's skin And crest, to form a shroud: And when Sir Gyles is wrapped therein His people wepe aloud.

Sir Valentyne doth well incline To soothe my lady's woe; And soon she'll slepe, nor ever wepe, An all the c.o.c.kkes sholde crowe.

Ay soone they are in wedlock tied, Full soon; and all, in fyne, That spouse can say to chere his bride, That sayth Sir Valentyne.

And gay agen are maids and men, Nor knyghte nor ladye mournes, Though Valentyne may trembel when He sees a bulle with hornnes.

My wife and I once visited The scene of all this woe, Which fell out (so the curate said) Four hundred years ago.

It needs no search to find a church Which all the land adorns, We pa.s.sed the weir, I thought with fear About the _olde bulle's hornnes_.

No c.o.c.k then crowed, no bull there lowed, But, while we paced the aisles, The curate told his tale, and showed A tablet to Sir Giles.

"'Twas raised by Lady Giles," he said, And when I bent the knee I Made out his name, and arms, and read, HIC JACET SERVVS DEI.

Says I, "And so he sleeps below, His wrongs all left behind him."

My wife cried, "Oh!" the clerk said, "No, At least we could not find him.

"Last spring, repairing some defect, We raised the carven stones, Designing to again collect And hide Sir Giles's bones.

"We delved down, and up, and round, For many weary morns, Through all this ground; but only found An ancient pair of horns."

MY FIRST-BORN.

"He shan't be their namesake, the rather That both are such opulent men: His name shall be that of his father,-- My Benjamin--shortened to Ben.

"Yes, Ben, though it cost him a portion In each of my relative's wills, I scorn such baptismal extortion-- (That creaking of boots must be Squills).

"It is clear, though his means may be narrow, This infant his age will adorn; I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow,-- I wonder how soon he'll be born!"

A spouse thus was airing his fancies Below--'twas a labour of love,-- And calmly reflecting on Nancy's More practical labour above;

Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, Elated, at ease, and alone; That pale, patient victim up yonder Had budding delights of her own;

Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner Than paltry ambition and pelf; A cherub, no babe will be finer, Invented and nursed by herself.

One breakfasting, dining, and teaing, With appet.i.te nought can appease, And quite a young Reasoning Being When called on to yawn and to sneeze.

What cares that heart, trusting and tender, For fame or avuncular wills!

Except for the name and the gender, She is almost as tranquil as Squills.

That father, in reverie centered, Dumbfoundered, his thoughts in a whirl, Heard Squills, as the creaking boots entered, Announce that his Boy was--a Girl.

SUSANNAH.

I. THE ELDER TREES.

At Susan's name the fancy plays With chiming thoughts of early days, And hearts unwrung; When all too fair our future smiled, When she was Mirth's adopted child, And I was young.

I see the cot with spreading eaves, The sun shines bright through summer leaves, But does not scorch,-- The dial stone, the pansy bed;-- Old Robin trained the roses red About the porch.

'Twixt elders twain a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry make; Good Robin's handiwork again,-- Oh, must we say his toil was vain, For Susan's sake?

Her gleeful tones and laughter gay Were sunshine for the darkest day; And yet, some said That when her mirth was pa.s.sing wild, Though still the faithful Robin smiled, He shook his head.

Perchance the old man harboured fears That happiness is wed with tears On this poor earth; Or else, may be, his fancies were That youth and beauty are a snare If linked with mirth.

And now how altered is that scene!

For mark old Robin's mournful mien, And feeble tread.

His toil has ceased to be his pride, At Susan's name he turns aside, And shakes his head.

And summer smiles, but summer spells Can never charm where sorrow dwells;-- No maiden fair, Or gay, or sad, the pa.s.ser sees,-- And still the much-loved Elder-trees Throw shadows there.

The homely-fashioned seat is gone, And where it stood is set a stone, A simple square: The worldling, or the man severe, May pa.s.s the name recorded here; But we will stay to shed a tear, And breathe a prayer.

II. A KIND PROVIDENCE.

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, He seemed a most despairing swain; But bluer sky brought newer tie, And--would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and, when we die, Will Philly Thistletop complain?

She'll cry and sigh, and--dry her eye, And let herself be wooed again.