“Now Thunder and turf!” Pope Gregory said,
And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head—­
“Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas! 
A horrible thing has come to pass! 
What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior,
And say he was ’only (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!’—­
  ’What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire
Is half so good as a holy Friar?’
  O, turpissime!  Vir nequissime!
Sceleratissime!—­quissime!—­issime!
Never, I trow, have the Servi servorum
  Had before ’em Such a breach of decorum,
Such a gross violation of morum bonorum,
And won’t have again saecula saeculorum!—­
  Come hither to me, My Cardinals three,
  My Bishops in partibus, Masters in Artibus,
  Hither to me, A.B. and D.D.,
  Doctors and Proctors of every degree! 
Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell
As big as a dustman’s!—­and a candle as well—­
I’ll send him where—­good manners won’t let me tell!”

—­“Pardon and grace!—­now pardon and grace!” —­Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face—­ “Mea culpa!—­in sooth I’m in pitiful case.  Peccavi! peccavi!—­I’ve done every wrong!  But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, And I’ll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they’re here and they’re there and I can’t tell you where, And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!” Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.

“Now if it be so that you own you’ve been wrong,
And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong,
And you really will fight like a trump all day long;—­
If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there,
And Holy Church shall come in for her share,—­
  Why, my Cardinals three, You’ll agree With me,
That it gives a new turn to the whole affair,
And I think that the Penitent need not despair! 
—­If it be so, as you seem to say,
Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray! 
An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found,
Whose innermost wall’s encircling bound
Shall take in a couple of acres of ground;
And there in that Abbey, all the year round,
A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns,
  And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay,
  Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain,
And gather the bones of the foully slain;
And shall place said bones, with all possible care,
In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair;
  And plenty of lights shall be there o’ nights—­
None of your rascally ‘dips,’ but sound,
Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound;
  And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one,
For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!

And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave,
Never shall wash himself, comb or shave,
  Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy,
  Nor indulge in a pipe—­ But shall dine upon tripe
And blackberries gathered before they are ripe,
And forever abhor, renounce and abjure
Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and liqueur!”