Part 22

"Oh help!" the lady shrieked aloud; "Arise, Sir John, and flee; Oh heard you not yon cry of pain Like some mortal agony?"

"I hear it not," Sir John replied, For his sleep was wondrous strong; "But see yon flashing weapons, sure To foemen they belong!"

The knight from his bed leaped forth to flee, But they've pierced his body through; And with wicked hands, and weapons keen, Him piteously they slew!

But that porter grim, strict watch he kept, Beside the stair sate he; When lo! comes tripping down a page, With a basket defterly.

"Now whither away, thou little page, Now whither away so fast?" "They have slain Sir John," said the little page, "And his head in this wicker cast."

"And whither goest thou with that grisly head?" Cried the grim porter again, "To Warrington Bridge they bade me run, And set it up amain."

"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 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!"

"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.

The Butlers, it is conjectured, were patrons of the priory of the hermit friars of St Augustine, founded before 1379, near the bridge. In 32 Henry VIII., this institution was dissolved, and its possessions were granted to the great monastic grantee, Thomas Holcroft.--Vide Tanner's Not. Mon. About forty years ago the remains of a gateway of the priory stood on Friar's Green, and some years after that period a stone coffin was dug up near the same place.

THE BLESSING.

"I had most need of blessing, and amen Stuck in my throat."

--Macbeth.

We have been unable to identify the spot where the occurrence took place, the subject of the following ballad. It is in all likelihood one of those wild and monkish legends that may be fitted or applied to any situation, according to the whim of the narrator. Many such legends, though the number is lessening daily, are still preserved, and an amusing volume might be made of these unappropriated wanderers that possess neither a local habitation nor a name.

The chase was done--the feast was begun, When the baron sat proudly by; And the revelry rode on the clamouring wind, That swept through the hurtling sky.