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_!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way
To a feeling which prompted a word profane,
But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again,
And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a
Mere repetition of _O meâ culpâ_!)

"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire,
And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear,
Any more from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!
So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease,
And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray)
Is off like a shot away and away,
Over the brine To far Palestine,
To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain
For the unburied bones of his victim slain.