A Ballad, Shewing How An Old Woman Rode Double, And Who Rode Before Her.

The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,         And the Old Woman knew what he said,         And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,         And sicken'd and went to her bed.         Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,         The Old Woman of Berkeley said,         The monk my son, and my daughter the nun         Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.         The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,         Their way to Berkeley went,         And they have brought with pious thought         The holy sacrament.         The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door,         'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,         Now take the sacrament away         For mercy, my children dear!         Her lip it trembled with agony,         The sweat ran down her brow,         I have tortures in store for evermore,         Oh! spare me my children now!         Away they sent the sacrament,         The fit it left her weak,         She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes         And faintly struggled to speak.         All kind of sin I have rioted in         And the judgment now must be,         But I secured my childrens souls,         Oh! pray my children for me.         I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,         The fiends have been my slaves,         I have nointed myself with infants fat,         And feasted on rifled graves.         And the fiend will fetch me now in fire         My witchcrafts to atone,         And I who have rifled the dead man's grave         Shall never have rest in my own.         Bless I intreat my winding sheet         My children I beg of you!         And with holy water sprinkle my shroud         And sprinkle my coffin too.         And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone         And fasten it strong I implore         With iron bars, and let it be chain'd         With three chains to the church floor.         And bless the chains and sprinkle them,         And let fifty priests stand round,         Who night and day the mass may say         Where I lie on the ground.         And let fifty choristers be there         The funeral dirge to sing,         Who day and night by the taper's light         Their aid to me may bring.         Let the church bells all both great and small         Be toll'd by night and day,         To drive from thence the fiends who come         To bear my corpse away.         And ever have the church door barr'd         After the even song,         And I beseech you children dear         Let the bars and bolts be strong.         And let this be three days and nights         My wretched corpse to save,         Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng         And then I may rest in my grave.         The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down         And her eyes grew deadly dim,         Short came her breath and the struggle of death         Did loosen every limb.         They blest the old woman's winding sheet         With rites and prayers as due,         With holy water they sprinkled her shroud         And they sprinkled her coffin too.         And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone         And with iron barr'd it down,         And in the church with three strong chains         They chain'd it to the ground.         And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,         And fifty priests stood round,         By night and day the mass to say         Where she lay on the ground.         And fifty choristers were there         To sing the funeral song,         And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand         Of all the sacred throng.         To see the priests and choristers         It was a goodly sight,         Each holding, as it were a staff,         A taper burning bright.         And the church bells all both great and small         Did toll so loud and long,         And they have barr'd the church door hard         After the even song.         And the first night the taper's light         Burnt steadily and clear.         But they without a hideous rout         Of angry fiends could hear;         A hideous roar at the church door         Like a long thunder peal,         And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung         Louder in fearful zeal.         Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,         The tapers they burnt bright,         The monk her son, and her daughter the nun         They told their beads all night.         The cock he crew, away they flew         The fiends from the herald of day,         And undisturb'd the choristers sing         And the fifty priests they pray.         The second night the taper's light         Burnt dismally and blue,         And every one saw his neighbour's face         Like a dead man's face to view.         And yells and cries without arise         That the stoutest heart might shock,         And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring         Over a mountain rock.         The monk and nun they told their beads         As fast as they could tell,         And aye as louder grew the noise         The faster went the bell.         Louder and louder the choristers sung         As they trembled more and more,         And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,         They never had prayed so before.         The cock he crew, away they flew         The fiends from the herald of day,         And undisturb'd the choristers sing         And the fifty priests they pray.         The third night came and the tapers flame         A hideous stench did make,         And they burnt as though they had been dipt         In the burning brimstone lake.         And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,         Grew momently more and more,         And strokes as of a battering ram         Did shake the strong church door.         The bellmen they for very fear         Could toll the bell no longer,         And still as louder grew the strokes         Their fear it grew the stronger.         The monk and nun forgot their beads,         They fell on the ground dismay'd,         There was not a single saint in heaven         Whom they did not call to aid.         And the choristers song that late was so strong         Grew a quaver of consternation,         For the church did rock as an earthquake shock         Uplifted its foundation.         And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast         That shall one day wake the dead,         The strong church door could bear no more         And the bolts and the bars they fled.         And the taper's light was extinguish'd quite,         And the choristers faintly sung,         And the priests dismay'd, panted and prayed         Till fear froze every tongue.         And in He came with eyes of flame         The Fiend to fetch the dead,         And all the church with his presence glowed         Like a fiery furnace red.         He laid his hand on the iron chains         And like flax they moulder'd asunder,         And the coffin lid that was barr'd so firm         He burst with his voice of thunder.         And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise         And come with her master away,         And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse,         At the voice she was forced to obey.         She rose on her feet in her winding sheet,         Her dead flesh quivered with fear,         And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave         Never did mortal hear.         She followed the fiend to the church door,         There stood a black horse there,         His breath was red like furnace smoke,         His eyes like a meteor's glare.         The fiendish force flung her on the horse         And he leapt up before,         And away like the lightning's speed they went         And she was seen no more.         They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks         For four miles round they could hear,         And children at rest at their mother's breast,         Started and screamed with fear.