O Nouembre is neare wythe the closinge yeare,

And the Halle is unfinishede quite,

And what liuinge menne dyd reare in the day, ytt dyd appeare
That dedde handes dyd undoe at nighte.

O the ceilinge and walles theye are rough and bare,
And the guestes they are comynge nowe;
O how shal the Baronne feaste them there,
And how shal hee keepe hys vowe?

Att the builders hee raued furiouslye,
Nor excuse wolde hee graunte att alle;
Butt, as one poore wretch low bent on hys knee,
He strake oute bys braynes wyth hys malle.
And, highe as he raysed his bloudie hande,
Ryght fearfullie thus spake hee:
'Yff at eue thys halle unfinishede stande,
Not one knave of yee liuinge shal bee!'

Thenn the builders theye playstered dilligentlye,
For lyfe or deth playstered theye,

And, a dagger's depthe, thicke coates three

Theye had spredde on the walles that daye.

'Sore feare worketh welle ! quoth the proude Baronne,
As he strode to the festall chayre,

And loude laughed the guestes to looke uponne
The worke so smoothe and fayre.

The pine torches rounde a braue lighte dydd flynge,
A redd noone through the darke nighte streaminge,

And small thoughte hadd the guestes of the waynscottinge,
Howe wette, and softe, and steaminge.

Now theye have barred faste the doores belowe,

And eke the windowes on highe;

And withoute stoode tremblinge the vassailes a rowe
Att the bolde impietie.

O wee tremblede to heare their reuelrie,

(For I was there that nighte,)

A sabbath ytt seemede of Deuilrie,

And of Witches att theyre delyte.

There was chauntinge thenne amayne, butt the

strayne

Of sweete musicke had loste ytt's feelinge,

pure

and holie

And there was harpe and lute, but lyttel dyd ytt boote,
For the daunce was butt beastlie reelinge.

And the feates were ille tolde of chiualrye olde,
Amiddste dronkennesse and dinne,

And the softe laye of loue colde noe tendernesse moue
Ynn hartes of ryott and sinne.

Three nightes ytt endured, and the staringe owle
Was scared from hys ivye throne,

And the poore currs dismallie answered a howle
More senselesse thanne theyre own.

And dronker theye waxed, and dronker yett,
And each manne dyd uainly laboure,

By reason of manie speakers, to gett
Meet audience from his neyboure.

These wordes thenn stammerede the loude Baronne,
'May I ne'er quitt thys goode cheere,

Tyll our maystere come to feaste wyth hys owne !'
And thatt was the laste wee colde heare.

The third morne rose full fayre, and the torches ruddye glare,

Through the windowes streamed noe more,

And, when the smalle birde rose from hys chambere in the boughes,

The festiuall shout was o'er.

The smalle birde gaylye sunge, and the merryelarke uppe

sprunge,

And the dewe droppe spangled the spraye,

And the blessede sunne, that stille shines the same on goode and ille,

Smyled thatt morne onn the old Abbaye.

O longe dydd we listene, in doubt and feare,
Att thatt unholye doore,

And, ere wee essayed to enter there,

Ytt was full highe noone and more.

Butt stille colde we gaine noe answere att alle,
Though wee asked continuallye;

And I that telle was the urchin smalle

That was thruste through the windowe to see.

OI hadde quayled in Saynte Quentin's fighte,
Where I rode in that Baronne's trayne,
And hadd shrunke to see the slayne att nighte,

I hadde sickennede to see eache pale face bare,
And eache staringe glassie eye,

As the moone was dimmlye reflectede there,
Farre from agreeablye.

Butt ne'er hadde I seene suche a syghte before
As thatt whyche dydd thenn befalle,

Of grimme and ghastlye dedd heddes a score
Mortared into a walle!

Theye were helde as theye dronkenlye backe dydd leane, Ynn deadlye payne and despayre,

And the redd wyne was clottede theire jawes betwene, And the mortare was growne to the hayre.

Full ofte haue I hearde thatt wyse menne doe saye
'Manie heddes are bettere thanne one;'

Butt, O, thanne wyth suche gaunt heddes as theye
Ytt were bettere to liue wyth none.

And stille the gaye fruites blushede on the boarde,
As in scorne of the sadde arraye,

And the sparklinge flaggons, wyth wyne halfe stored,
Beamed oute to the sunne alwaye.

Nowe Time hath rolled onne for three score yeare,
And the olde walle standeth yett;

And, deepe, in rowes, rounde thatt dred chambere,
Eache darke browne skulle is sett.

The ivye hath wreathede a coronett grene

For the grimlye Baronne's browe;

And, where once the dais carpett flaunted shene,
The ranke grass waveth nowe.

In the sockett where rowled eache dronken eye
Hath the martlett builded her holde;

And, aye, midde the whyte teeth, gallantlye
The walle flowere twisteth ytt's folde.

And, in place of the torches of pine-tree made,
The pale moone quivereth o'er themme,
And the scritch owle, wyth sorrye serenade,
Mocketh the mynstrell before themme.

And there muste they staye, tyll the dredful daye
When theire maystere claymeth hys dole!
O Gentles beeware of suche doome, and praye
Grammercye onne eache poore soule.

Butt, euermore, to your dyinge hower,
Remembere, whate'er befalle,

Keepe free your hartes from the foule fiende's power,
And your heddes from newe mortared-walle.

Thenne of Alle Deuiles' Daye thys the storye is,
And of Alle Deuiles' Halle lykewyse;

A wonderous tale, yett soe trewe ytt is,
That noe bodye it denyes.

[Stanza 7. 'Good Kynge Harrye'- Henry VIII.-whom the ordinary reader may, perhaps, not at once recognise under that epithet.

St. 7. Angels'-metallic currency, not spirits of another world.

St. 9. Ribaulderie'-a sort of converse much in use among the soldiers of the Pays des Ribauds; desultory troops under the command of the Duke of Burgundy in the holy wars.-Du Cange.

St. 15. Despaire of heuen'-' Que faut-il faire pour dissiper l'ennuie? C'est le mois de Novembre. Il fait mauvais temps-temps de brouillards. Que faut-il faire pour dissiper l'ennuie? Les Anglois se pendent. Que fautil faire, dis-je, pour dissiper l'ennuie? Il faut boire du ponche !-Almanach des Gourmands."]

[This ballad is taken from The Local Historian's Tablebook,' where it is given as 'revised by the author,' the Rev J. Watson.having, apparently, been first published in Tait's Edinburgh Magazine.' It is founded upon a 'family legend,' current in the County of Durham, the authority of which,' says Mr. Brockett, in his Glossary of North Country Words, the inhabitants will not allow to be questioned. The lapse of three centuries,' he adds, has so completely enveloped in obscurity the particular details, that it is impossible to give a narration which could in any degree be considered as complete.' In the Table-book,' however, is given a history,' said to have been gleaned with much patient and laborious investigation, from the viva voce narrations of sundry of the elders of both sexes on the banks of the Wear, in the immediate neighbourhood of the scene of action. This history' is almost identical with the story of the ballad; the allusions in which will be found explained in the notes With regard to the origin of the Legend, which has been preserved and repeated almost without variation for centuries,' it is conjectured in the Table book' to have arisen from the circumstance of an invasion from a foreign foe, some successful chieftain, with well-disciplined bands, destroying and laying waste with fire and sword, whose advance over unequal ground would convey to the fears of the peasantry the appearance of a rolling serpent; and the power of re-uniting is readily accounted for by the ordinary evolutions of military tactics. And by the knight's 'destroying this legion by his single arm,' is sup posed to be signified that he was the head and chief in the onslaught."]