She put him in a case of lead,

Says, 'Lie ye there and sleep ;'
She threw him into the deep draw-well
Was fifty fathom deep.

A schoolboy walking in the garden,
Did grievously hear him moan,
He ran away to the deep draw-well
And on his knee fell down.

Says 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray you speak to me;

If you speak to any body in this world,
I pray you speak to me.'

When bells were rung and mass was sung,

And every body went hame,

Then every lady had her son,
But Lady Helen had nane.

She rolled her mantle her about,
And sore, sore did she weep;
She ran away to the Jew's castle
When all were fast asleep.

She cries, Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray you speak to me ;

If you speak to any body in this world,
I pray you speak to me.'

'Lady Helen, if ye want your son,
I'll tell ye where to seek ;

Lady Helen, if ye want your son,
He's in the well sae deep.'

She ran away to the deep draw-well,

And she fell down on her knee;

Saying, ‘Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh

pray ye speak to me,

If ye speak to any body in the world,

I

pray ye speak to me.'

'Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother,

The well it is wondrous deep,

The little penknife sticks in my throat,

And I downa to ye speak.

But lift me out o' this deep draw-well,
And bury me in yon churchyard;
Put a Bible at my head,' he says,
'And a testament at my feet,
And pen and ink at every side,
And I'll lie still and sleep.

'And go to the back of Maitland town,
Bring me my winding-sheet;

For it's at the back of Maitland town
That you and I sall meet.'

O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom,
The broom that makes full sore;

A woman's mercy is very little,
But a man's mercy is more.

A Lyke-Wake Dirge

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,

Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.

ANONYMOUS.

When thou from hence away art paste,
Every nighte and alle,

To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle,

Sit thee down and put them on,

And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,

Every nighte and alle,

The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,

Every nighte and alle,

To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste,

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle,

To Purgatory fire thou comest at last,
And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest meate or drinke,
Every nighte and alle,

The fire sall never make thee shrinke,
And Christe receive thye saule.

If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte and alle,

The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thye saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,

Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.

The Red Fisherman; or, the Devil's
Decoy

O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!'--Romeo and Juliet.
THE Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoon,
And wandered forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon :

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.

He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds;

He clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads;

If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there;

If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious priest might the Abbot seem,
He had swayed the crozier well;

But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot were loath to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more
He traced the windings of the shore;
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,

And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head;

He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread;
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess

The water had slept for many a year
Unchanged and motionless;

From the river-stream it spread away

The space of half a rood;

The surface had the hue of clay

And the scent of human blood;

The trees and the herbs that round it grew

Were venomous and foul,

And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl;

The water was as dark and rank

As ever a company pumped,

And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped ;

And bold was he who thither came

At midnight, man or boy,

For the place was cursed with an evil name,

And that name was 'The Devil's Decoy!

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,

And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:

When suddenly rose a dismal tone,—
Was it a song, or was it a moan?
"O ho! O ho!

Above, below,

Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!'
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run:

The startled Priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod ;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago.
And the hands that worked his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest :

You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem?

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks. As he took forth a bait from his iron box.