;

The secret, as you may guess, was known
To Alit, my wife, but to her alone
And never sick man, I dare aver,
Was better tended than he was by her.

Good advice, moreover, as good could be,
He had from Alit my wife, and me;
And no one could promise fairer than he ·
So that we and Piet Pieterszoon our son,
Thought that we a very good deed had done.

You may well think we laughed in our sleeve,
At what the people then seem'd to believe :
Queer enough it was to hear them say,
That the Three Kings took Roprecht away.

Or that St. Ursula, who is in bliss,
With her Army of Virgins had done this:
The Three Kings and St. Ursula, too,
I warrant, had something better to do.

Piet Pieterszoon my son, and I,
We heard them talk as we stood by,
And Piet look'd at me with a comical eye.
We thought them fools, but, as you shall see,
Not over-wise ourselves were we.

For I must tell you, Father Kijf,

That when we told this to Alit my wife,
She at the notion perk'd up with delight,
And said she believed the people were right.

Had not Roprecht put in the Saints his hope,
And who but they should have loosen'd the rope,
When they saw that no one could intend

To make at the gallows a better end?

Yes, she said, it was perfectly clear

That there must have been a miracle here ;
And we had the happiness to be in it,

Having been brought there just at the minute.

And therefore it would become us to make

An offering for this favour's sake

To the Three Kings and the Virgins too,

Since we could not tell to which it was due.

For greater honour there could be none

Than what in this business the Saints had done
To us and Piet Pieterszoon our son;
She talk'd me over, Father Kijf,

With that tongue of hers, did Alit

my

wife.

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Lord forgive us! as if the Saints would deign
To come and help such a rogue in grain :
When the only mercy the case could admit
Would have been to make his halter fit!

That would have made one hanging do,
In happy season for him too,
When he was in a proper cue;
And have saved some work, as you

To my son Piet Pieterszoon, and me.

will see,

Well, father, we kept him at bed and board,
Till his neck was cured and his strength restored;
And we should have him sent off this day
With something to help him on his way.

But this wicked Roprecht, what did he?
Though he had been saved thus mercifully;
Hanging had done him so little good,

That he took to his old ways as soon as he could.

Last night, when we were all asleep,

Out of his bed did this gallows-bird creep,

Piet Pieterszoon's boots and spurs he put on,
And stole my best horse, and away he was gone!

Now Alit, my wife, did not sleep so hard,
But she heard the horse's feet in the yard,
And when she jogg'd me, and bade me awake,
My mind misgave me as soon as she spake.

To the window my good woman went,
And watch'd which way his course he bent;
And in such time as a pipe can be lit,
Our horses were ready with bridle and bit.

Away, as fast as we could hie,

We went, Piet Pieterszoon and I;

And still on the plain we had him in sight;
The moon did not shine for nothing that night.

Knowing the ground, and riding fast,
We came up with him at last,

And-would you believe it? Father Kijf,

The ungrateful wretch would have taken my life,
If he had not miss'd his stroke with a knife!

The struggle in no long time was done,
Because, you know we were two to one;
But yet all our strength we were fain to try,

When we had got him on the ground,
We fastened his hands, and his legs we bound;
And across the horse we laid him then,

And brought him back to the house again.

"We have robb'd the gallows, and that was ill done," Said I, to Piet Pieterszoon my son :

"And restitution we must make

To that same gallows, for justice' sake."

In his suit of irons the rogue we array'd,
And once again in the cart he was laid!
Night not yet so far was spent,

But there was time enough for our intent;
And back to the triple tree we went.

His own rope was ready there;

To measure the length we took good care;

And the job which the bungling Hangman begun,
This time, I think, was properly done,

By me and Piet Pieterszoon my son."

[This ballad is taken from Roby's Traditions of Lancashire. The Luck of Muncaster,' says Mr. Roby, 'is the name given to a curiously wrought glass cup, studded with gold and white enamel spots, which was given by King Henry VI, on his departure from Muncaster (then called Mealcastre) Castle, where he had found shelter from the pursuit of his enemies in 1461, to Sir John Pennington, the then possessor of the Castle. The king accompanied his present with the following blessing:-The family shall prosper as long as they preserve it unbroken.' This cup was buried till the cessation of hostilities had rendered farther care and concealment unnecessary. Unfortunately, however, the person commissioned to disinter this precious jewel let the box fall in which it was locked up, which so alarmed the then existing members of the family, that they could not muster courage to satisfy their apprehensions. It therefore (according to the traditionary story preserved in the family) remained unopened for more than forty years, at the expiration of which period, a Pennington, more hardy or more courageous than his predecessors, unlocked the casket, and exultingly proclaimed the safety of the Luck of Muncaster.' The reader will doubtless call to mind a ballad founded on a similar tale, entitled The Luck of Eden Hall,' written by Mr. Wiffen, the translator of Tasso.]

PART FIRST.

OME hither, Sir John de Pennington,
Come hither and hearken to me;
Nor silver, nor gold, nor ladye-love,
Nor broad lands, I give unto thee.'

I care not for silver, I care not for gold,
Nor for broad lands, nor fair ladye;

But my honour and troth, and my good broad sword,
Are the king's eternally.'

" Come hither, Sir John, thou art loyal and brave,'
Again the monarch spake;

In my trouble and thrall, in the hour of pain,
Thou pity didst on me take.

The white rose withers on every bough,

And the red rose rears its thorn;
But many a maid our strife shall rue,
And the babe that is yet unborn.

I've charged in the battle with horse and lance,
But I've doff'd the warrior now;

And never again may helmet of steel
Bind this burning, aching brow!

O! had I been born of a simple churl,
And a serving-wench for my mate,

I had whistled as blithe as yon knave, that sits
By Muncaster's Castle gate!

Would that my crown were a bonnet of bluc,
And my sceptre yon shepherd's crook,
I would honour, dominion, power eschew,
In this holy and quiet nook.

For England's crown is a girdle of blood,
A traitor is every gem;

And a murderer's eye each jewel that lurks
In that kingly diadem!

Hunt on! hunt on, thou bloodhound keen;
I'd rather an outcast be,

Than wade through all that thou hast done,
To pluck that crown from thee!'

Then tarry, my liege,' Sir John replied,
In Muncaster's Castle gate;

No foeman shall enter, while shelter'd here
From Edward's pride and hate.'

'I may not tarry, thou trusty knight,

Nor longer with thee abide;

Ere to-morrow shall rise on these lordly towers,

From that gate shall a monarch ride.

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