The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 116 : How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,

How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so n.o.ble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes s.p.a.ce, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks s.p.a.ce to thee will I give.

And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give: That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head Among all his liege-men so n.o.ble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt?

Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lords.h.i.+p, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appears 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so n.o.ble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel!

--Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soone!

--Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the ma.s.se, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!

Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four n.o.bles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee: And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.

From _Percy's Reliques._

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold despise?

What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery G.o.d Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.

_Thomas Gray._

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE

A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY

MR. SIMPKINSON (_loquitur_)

I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said "What make you here?-- The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;"

Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy--he deem'd I meant to scoff: And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off"; He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-- He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.

Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh! fie!-- It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"