It boots not to tell What you’ll guess very well,
How some sang the requiem, some toll’d the bell;
  Suffice it to say, ’Twas on Candlemas-day
The procession I speak of reached the Sacellum: 
  And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper
Received the first taste of the Father’s flagellum;—­
  That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell
All the rest of his days in the Abbey he’d founded,
By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded,
And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns,
Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns;
—­That year after year, having run round the Quad
With his back, as enjoin’d him, exposed to the rod,
Having not only kissed it, but bless’d it and thank’d it, he
Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity,
When,—­strange to relate! and you’ll hardly believe
What I’m going to tell you,—­next Candlemas Eve
The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night
Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright,
  Alarm’d by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls
Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!

  Looking out, soon By the light of the moon
There appears most distinctly to ev’ry one’s view,
And making, as seems to them, all this ado,
The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew,
  As black as if steep’d in that “Matchless” of Hunt’s,
And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz;
A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes
A flagellum, whose lashes appear to be snakes;
While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders
Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS,
  But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight
As if by a closer inspection to find
Where to get the best cut at his victim behind,
With the aid of a small “bull-eye lantern,”—­as placed
By our own new police,—­in a belt round his waist. 
  All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes,
When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies
From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,—­
In vain,—­for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks,
“Running after him,” so said the Abbot,—­“like Bricks!”
Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight
Course round the Abbey as best he might
Be-thwack’d and be-smack’d by the headless Sprite,
While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,—­
Then a whoop and a halloo,—­and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away,
  And at this time of day One can hardly survey
Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey
With age, and fast mouldering into decay,
Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray;
But still there are many folks living who say
That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight,
  Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright,
With his thick black beard,—­and the clerical Sprite,