sheep, telling a tale of the absence of "roots" and "feed," will hardly be made good in one year.
THE REVELLERS
"A LEGEND OF HOLBECH"
a true story.
Made into this rhyme by Mr. Rawnsley of Bourne, about the year 1800.
In the bleak noxious Fen that to Lincoln pertains
Where agues assert their fell sway,
There the Bittern hoarse moans and the seamew complains
As she flits o'er the watery way.
While with strains thus discordant, the natives of air
With screams and with shrieks the ear strike,
The toad and the frog croaking notes of despair
Join the din, from the bog and the dyke.
Mid scenes that the senses annoy and appal
Sad and sullen old Holbech appears,
As if doomed to bewail her hard fate from the Fall,
Like a Niobe washed with her tears.
From fogs pestilential that hovered around,
To ward off despair and disease,
The juice of the grape was most generous found,
Source of comfort, of joy, and of ease.
At the "Chequers" long famed to quaff then did delight
The Burghers both ancient and young,
With smoking and cards, passed the dull winter night,
They joked and they laughed and they sung.
Three revellers left, when the midnight was come,
Unable their game to pursue,
Repaired, most unhallowed, to visit the tomb
Where enshrouded lay one of their crew.
For he, late-departed, renowned was at whist,
The marsh-men still tell of his fame,
Till Death with a spade struck the cards from his fist
And spoiled both his hand and his game.
Cold and damp was the night; thro' the churchyard they prowled,
As wolves by fierce hunger subdued,
'Gainst the doors they huge gravestones impetuous rolled
Which recoiled at such violence rude.
From the sepulchre's jaws their old comrade uncased,
(How chilling the tale to relate),
Upreared 'gainst the wall on the table was placed
A corpse, in funereal state.
