I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee!
Ill it seems that soldier true
Of Holy Church should vainly sue:--
--Foot-pages they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they;
Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair,
For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
But stout and true Soldiers like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!--
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said:
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! and alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,
And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew!
Dame Alice I found,--She sank on the ground,--
I twisted her neck till I twisted it round!
With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff,
I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!--
All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men
Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Why really--I hardly know what to say:--
Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay,
Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.--
--Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray;
For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say,
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
A fair rose-noble must duly pay!
So may his qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case!
There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain
His legs lie here and his arms lie there,
And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight,
To hack and to hew A champion true
Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!--
A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights--