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,
With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight,
Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood,
And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood;
More especially still, if it's stormy and windy,
You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy;
And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail
They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest
Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed,
Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd
That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain
Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest,
Caulk'd and made water-tight,
By command of the Knight,
Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right,