they to the socket burnt,

The time, I trow, seem’d long.

The first that went out was St. Peter,

The second was St. John;

And now St. Matthias is going,

And now St. Matthew is gone.

Next there went St. Andrew,

There goes St. Philip too;

And see! there is an end

Of St. Bartholomew.

St. Simon is in the snuff;

But it was a matter of doubt

Whether he or St. Thomas could be said

Soonest to have gone out.

There are only three remaining,

St. Jude, and the two St. James;

And great was then Queen Mary’s hope

For the best of all good names.

Great was then Queen Mary’s hope,

But greater her fear, I guess,

When one of the three went out,

And that one was St. James the Less.

They are now within less than quarter-inch,

The only remaining two!

When there came a thief in St. James,

And it made a gutter too!

Up started Queen Mary,

Up she sate in her bed:

“I never can call him Judas!”

She claspt her hands and said.

“I never can call him Judas!”

Again did she exclaim;

“Holy Mother preserve us!

It is not a Christian name!”

She spread her hands and claspt them again,

And the Infant in the cradle

Set up a cry, an angry cry,

As loud as he was able.

“Holy Mother preserve us!”

The Queen her prayer renew’d;

When in came a moth at the window

And flutter’d about St. Jude.

St. James hath fallen in the socket

But as yet the flame is not out,

And St. Jude hath singed the silly moth

That flutters so blindly about.

And before the flame and the molten wax

That silly moth could kill,

It hath beat out St. Jude with its wings,

And St. James is burning still!

Oh, that was a joy for Queen Mary’s heart;

The babe is christened James;

The Prince of Aragon hath got

The best of all good names!

Glory to Santiago,

The mighty one in war!

James he is call’d, and he shall be

King James the Conqueror!

Now shall the Crescent wane,

The Cross be set on high

In triumph upon many a Mosque;

Woe, woe to Mawmetry!

Valencia shall be subdued;

Majorca shall be won;

The Moors be routed every where;

Joy, joy, for Aragon!

Shine brighter now, ye stars, that crown

Our Lady del Pilar.

And rejoice in thy grave, Cid Campeador,

Ruydiez de Bivar!

Roprecht the Robber

PART I

Roprecht the Robber is taken at last;

In Cologne they have him fast;

Trial is over, and sentence past;

And hopes of escape were vain, he knew,

For the gallows now must have its due.

But though pardon cannot here be bought,

It may for the other world, he thought;

And so, to his comfort, with one consent

The Friars assured their penitent.

Money, they teach him, when rightly given,

Is put out to account with Heaven;

For suffrages therefore his plunder went,

Sinfully gotten, but piously spent.

All Saints, whose shrines are in that city,

They tell him, will on him have pit,

Seeing he hath liberally paid,

In this time of need, for their good aid.

In the Three Kings they bid him confide,

Who there in Cologne lie side by side:

And from the Eleven Thousand Virgins eke,

Intercession for him will they bespeak.

And also a sharer he shall be

In the merits of their community;

All which they promise, he need not fear,

Through Purgatory will carry him clear.

Though the furnace of Babylon could not compare

With the terrible fire that rages there,

Yet they their part will so zealously do,

He shall only but frizzle as he flies through.

And they will help him to die well,

And he shall be hang’d with book and bell;

And moreover with holy water they

Will sprinkle him, ere they turn away.

For buried Roprecht must not be;

He is to be left on the triple tree;

That they who pass along may spy

Where the famous Robber is hanging on high.

Seen is that gibbet far and wide

From the Rhine and from the Dusseldorff side;

And from all roads which cross the sand,

North, south, and west, in that level land.

It will be a comfortable sight

To see him there by day and by night;

For Roprecht the Robber many a year

Had kept the country round in fear.

So the Friars assisted, by special grace,

With book and bell to the fatal place;

And he was hang’d on the triple tree,

With as much honor as man could be.

In his suit of irons he was hung;

They sprinkled him