When the Baily had ridden to Bramfield oak,
Sir Hugh was at Ilksall bower;

When the Baily had ridden to Halesworth cross,
He was singing in Bungay tower—
"Now that I'm in my castle of Bungay,
Upon the river of Waveney,

I will ne care for the King of Cockney."

When news was brought to London town,
How Sir Bigod did jest and sing,

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Say you to Lord Hew of Norfolk,"
Said Henry, our English King,

"Though you be in your castle of Bungay,
Upon the river of Waveney,

I'll make you care for the King of Cockney."

King Henry he marshal'd his merry men all,
And through Suffolk they march'd with speed
And they march'd to Lord Bigod's castle wall,
And knock'd at his gate, I rede;

Sir Hugh of the castle of Bungay,
Upon the river of Waveney,

Come, doff your cap to the King of Cockney.”

Sir Hughon Bigod so stout and brave,
When he heard the King thus say,
He trembled and shook like a May-mawther,
And he wish'd himself away;

"Were I out of my castle of Bungay,
And beyond the river of Waveney,
I would ne care for the King of Cockney."

Sir Hugh took three score sacks of gold,
And flung them over the wall,

Says, "Go your ways, in the Devil's name,
Yourself and your merry men all!

But leave me my castle of Bungay,
Upon the river of Waveney,

And I'll pay my shot to the King of Cockney."

THE FAKENHAM GHOST:

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

This Ballad is founded on a well-known fact. The circumstance, says Bloomfield, occurred long before I was born; but is still related by some of the oldest inhabitants in that part of the country.

acres.

Fakenham Wood, near Euston Hall, is, perhaps, the largest in the county, and covers an extent of 314 It was the frequent resort of Mr. Austin and his family, at the time that Bloomfield was with him, on a Sunday afternoon, in the summer months. Here the farmer was wont to indulge his juniors with a stroll to recreate them after the labors of the week; and this was the Poet's favorite haunt in his boyish days, whenever his numerous occupations left him sufficient leisure to muse on the beauties of nature.

A view of Fakenham from Euston Park, taken near "the darksome copse that whisper'd on the hill," and presenting the "White Park Gate" through which the terror-struck villager fled, when pursued by the longeared apparition, is given in "Storer's and Greig's "Illustrations of Bloomfield, 1806," 4to. and 8vo.

THE lawns were dry in Euston park ;
(Here truth inspires my tale)

The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

x2

Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made

To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,

But follow'd faster still;

And echo'd to the darksome copse

That whisper'd on the hill;

Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,

Bespoke a peopled shade;

And many a wing the foliage brush'd,

And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer

That sought the shades by day,

Now started from her path with fear,

And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears

Came o'er her troubled mind;

When now, a short quick step she hears

Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt !...nought could she see

Upon the gloomy plain !

But, as she strove the Sprite to flee,

She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame:

For, where the path was bare,

The trotting Ghost kept on the same!

She mutter'd many a pray'r.

Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;

When through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt,

It follow'd down the plain !

She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her pray'rs again.

Then on she sped, and hope grew strong,
The white park gate in view

;

Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That Ghost and all pass'd through.

Loud-fell the gate against the post!
Her heart-strings like to crack:
For, much she fear'd the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the Goblin went,
As it had done before :...

Her strength and resolution spent,

She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surpris'd:

Out came her daughter dear:

Good-natur'd souls! all unadvis'd

Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierc'd through the night,

Some short space o'er the green;

And there the little trotting sprite

Distinctly might be seen.

An Ass's Foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park ;

And simple as the playful lamb,
Had follow'd in the dark.

No Goblin he; no imp of sin:
No crimes had ever known.
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round

Upon the cottage floor :

The matron learn'd to love the sound

That frighten'd her before.

A favourite the Ghost became ;

And, 'twas his fate to thrive :

And long he liv'd and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale;

And some conviction too:...

Each thought some other Goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.