To hack and to hew A champion true
Of holy Church in such pitiful plight!
Foul sin her warriors so to slay,
When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!--
A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair,
To pray for his soul for ever and aye,
Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay
For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights--
None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound,
Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;--
And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair
For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!--
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay!
Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray.
"No champion free of the Cross was he;
No belted Baron of high degree;
No Knight nor Squire Did there expire;
He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar!
And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait,
With his monks around him, and early and late,
May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate,
He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"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!