COUNTY LEGENDS. No. III. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY. THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY. CANTO II. Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry-so But as for the Venue, I vow I'm perplext To say if it's in this world, or if in the next- That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own In a 'tight little Island' that stands in a Lake Called Lough-dearg'-that's 'The Red Lake,' unless I mis take, In Fermanagh or Antrim-or Donegal-which I declare I can't tell, But I know very well It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch: (At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here.) There are some, I'm aware, Who don't stick to declare There's no differ' at all 'twixt 'this here' and 'that there.' That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the finest of pisentry,' And that his is no more Than a mere private door From the rez-de-chaussée-as some call the ground-floor,— But no matter-lay The locale where you may; -And where it is no one exactly can say― Both for 'Man and for Horse ;'— They use Lord Mayor's coals; very well, Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong; The 'prokers' are not half so hot, or so long, The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth, Made for what's called by Cockneys a' Minor The-atre.' Than the House,' that's so much better lighted and warmer, Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,— -You understand where I don't question-down there Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions, The Paving Commissioners use Good Intentions,' Materials which here would be thought on by few men, With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine. Το go on with my story, This same Purga-tory, (There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory,) Is close locked, and the Pope keeps the keys of it—that I can Boldly affirm-in his desk in the Vatican; -Not those of St. Peter These, of which I now treat, are A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater- Now it seems that by these Not only the Pope, but his clargy,' with ease Had brought matters about, If the little old woman would but have spoke out,' Or passes which clear both the great gates and wickets; Or short turn on the Mill, And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity, Popped out of doors, And sheered off at once for a happier port, Like a white-washed Insolvent that's gone through the Court.' But Basil was one Who was not to be done By any one, either in earnest or fun ;— The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun, In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo, Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it 'No Go.' So, unless you're a dunce, You'll see clearly at once, When you come to consider the facts of the case, he, And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe For what could she do? She very well knew If she went to the gates I have mentioned to you, And his Holiness not only gets the 'cold shoulder,' Well-what shall she do ? What's the course to pursue ? Try St. Peter ?-the step is a bold one to take; Heart ne'er won fair Lady," then how win a saint ;— One can but apply; If things come to the worst why he can but deny— 's rather high To be sure-but, now I That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by, I am just in the "order" which some folks-though why It won't do to be shy, So I'll tuck up my shroud, and-here goes for a fly !'— And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot. When she drew so near That St. Peter could see her, The Saint in a moment began to look queer, And scarce would allow her to make her case clear, He applied his great toe with some force au derrière, 'Alas! poor Ghost!' It's a doubt which is most To be pitied-one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,- To be all abroad'-to be 'stump'd'-not to know where As not to be placed,' Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, to be No-where.'However that be, The affaire was finie, And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see! Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes-not the Jew That the Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,' Having no other sort of asylum in view, * 'Returns back again to the place whence she flew,' When there, on the spot where she'd hid her 'supplies,'- Working hard with a spade, All at once she survey'd That confounded old bandy-legged Tailor by trade.' Fancy the tone Of the half moan, half groan, Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone ! While she utter'd that word, Which American Bird, Or John Fenimore Cooper, would render Tarnation!!' *E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires !'-GRAY. 'A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares!-JOHNSON. At the noise which she made Down went the spade !— And up jump'd the bandy-legg'd Tailor by trade,' So extremely profound, The moment her shadowy form met his view He gave vent to a sort of a lengthen'd' Bo-o-ho-o l'— Made one grasshopper spring to the door-and was gone! As at Rome they would phrase it— His flight was so swift, the eye scarcely could trace it, I doubt if the Ghost could have vanish'd more quickly;- And it's said never rightly recover'd his wits, I'll venture to say, She'd sat there to this day, Brooding over what Cobbett calls vile yellow clay,' Come to look for her pelf; But not, like the Tailor, to dig, delve, and grovel, Such tools would not do, Far other the weapons he brought into play, ་ To light to her ducats, Holy Water, two buckets, (Made with salt-half a peck to four gallons-which brews a Strong triple X' strike,'-see Jacobus de Chusa.) With these, too, he took His bell and his book Not a nerve ever trembled,—his hand never shook And now, for the reason I gave you before, Of what pass'd then and there I can tell you no more, See Miscellany, January, 1841. |