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'O never, O never, thou lying elf,
That maiden's word is spoken;
The cup of grace left a traitor's hand,
Proud Muncaster's 'Luck' is broken.'

Then scornfully grinn'd that elfin dwarf,
And loud he laught again;

There's a key in thy castle, sir knight, can break
That maiden's heart in twain!'

The knight he turn'd him on his steed,
And he lookt o'er hill and stream;
But he saw not that elfin dwarf again,
He had vanisht as a dream!

The knight came back to his castle hall,
And stabled his good gray steed:
And he is to his chamber gone,
With wild and angry speed.

And he saw the oaken casket, where
Lay hid that cup of grace,

Since that fearful day, when the traitor foe
Wrought ruin on his race.

'Thou cursed thing,' he cried in scorn,
'That ever such Luck' should be;
From Muncaster's house, ill-boding fiend,
Thou shalt vanish eternally.'

He kickt the casket o'er and o'er,
With rage and contumely;

When, lo! a tinkling sound was heard,
Down dropt a glittering key!

He remember'd well the wondrous speech
Of the spectre dwarf again,

'There's a key in Muncaster Castle can break
A maiden's heart in twain!'

He took the key, and he turn'd the lock,

And he open'd the casket wide;

When the cause of all his agony
The lover now espied.

The holy cup lay glistering there,
And he kist that blessed token,
For its matchless form unharmed lay,
The Luck' had ne'er been broken!

The loud halls rung, and the minstrels sung,
And glad roll'd the Esk's bonny tide,
When Lonsdale's Lady Margaret

Was Muncaster's winsome bride!

Now prosper long that baron bold,
And that bright and blessed token:
For Muncaster's Luck is constant yet,
And the crystal charm unbroken.

[Muncaster, and the manor of Muncaster, have long been enjoyed by the Penningtons, who appear to have possessed it about forty years before the Conquest, and ever since-sometimes collaterally, but for the most part in lineal descent by their issue male-to this present time. Gamel de Pennington is the first ancestor of the family of whom there is any recorded account: he was a person of great note and property at the time of the Conquest, and the family having quitted their original seat of Pennington, in Lancashire, (where the foundation of a square building called the Castle is still visible,) he fixed his residence at Mealcastre, now called Muncaster. The old tower of the present Mansion-house at Muncaster was built by the Romans, to guard the ford called St. Michael's Ford, over the river Esk, when Agricola went to the north, and to watch, also, the great passes into the country over the Fells, and over Hard Knot, where is the site of another fortress constructed by them, apparent from the traces existing to this day.

The room in which Henry the Sixth was concealed is still called Henry the Sixth's room. The posts of the bed in which he slept, which are of handsome carved oak, are also in the same room, in good preservation.

When John, Lord Muncaster, the first of the family who obtained a peerage, entered into possession of Muncaster Castle, after his elevation in 1793, he found it still surrounded with a moat, and defended by a strong portcullis. The family having of late years entirely resided upon their estate of Wartee, in Yorkshire, the house was in so very dilapidated a state, that Lord Muncaster was obliged to rebuild it almost entirely, with the exception of Agricola's tower, the walls of which are nine feet thick. The elevation of the new part is in unison with that of the Roman tower, and forms altogether a handsome castellated building. The situation is eminently striking, and was well chosen for commanding the several passes over the mountains. It is surrounded with mountain scenery on the north, south, and east, while extensive plantations, a rich and elevated country, with the sea in the distance, make a combination of scenery, than which it is scarcely possible to imagine anything more beautiful or picturesque. In the words of its noble owner, who himself so greatly contributed to its renovation, it consists of 'wood, park, lawn, valley, river, sea, and mountain.'—ROBY.]

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This Ancient Ballad,' as it is there called, is taken from Legends of the Library at Lilies, by the Lord and Lady there,' London, 1832. The only information afforded respecting it is as follows:- To such as are well read in the rare work of autobiography lately published by Sir Jonah Barrington, so singular will the coincidence appear between the relation he gives of the strange fate of Mr. Joseph Kelly and Mr. Peter Alley, in My Brother's Hunting Lodge,' and the catastrophe of the following tale, that, except for the doubtless authenticity of the first-mentioned narrative, it might almost be thought to have been founded on this ancient ballad, which bears evidence of having been written about the middle of the sixteenth century, by a person who was himself a witness of the event he celebrates. As it is, the two stories will probably be taken as equally true, and strongly confirmatory of each other."]

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GOODLYE romaunte you shal heere, I wis,

Tisycleped of Alle Deuiles Halle, Likewyse of the Feaste of Alle Deuiles it is,

And of what dyd there befalle.

1

For a pleasaunte thynge is this historye,
And much delyte doe I

In one so straunge, yett so true perdie
That noe man can ytt denye.

O the boarde is sette, and the guestes are mett
To drinke in Alle Deuiles' Halle,

The guestes are drye, but the walles are wett,
And the doores are barred on alle.

And why are the tables in ordere sett,
And why is the wassaile spredd,

And why are they mett while the walles are wett
To carouse o'er the uaultes of the dedd?

The Baronne of Hawkesdenne rose wyth the sunne
On the daye of Alle Sayntes in the morne.
A terrible feate hee had thoughte uponne,
And a terrible oathe he had sworne.

From holye church full manie a roode
Hee had ravishede of landys fayre,

And where Alle Saintes abbaye had latelye stoode
Hys holde hee had builded there.

For to hym our good Kynge Harrye had given
For hys fee that rich Abbaye,

When the Angels bequeathed for the service of Heuen
Were ta'en from the Church awaye.

Yett firmlye and well stoode the proude Chappell,
Though ne monk ne preeste was there,

Butt for festival nowe was hearde the beil
That wont to be hearde for prayer.

And those sayntelye walles of olde gray stone
Dyd witnesse foul revelrye,

And they shooke to heare theire echoes owne
Wordes of ribaulderie.

'Now builde mee a Halle,' the Baronne sayde,
'And builde ytt both wide and high,

And builde ytt mee ouer the moulderinge dedde,
As they rotte in cemeterye.

For long haue I lacked a banquettinge Halle,
Meete for my feeres and me;

For our mirthe the olde Chappell is alle too smalle,

Thys aunciente place I wyl newlye calle,
And christene ytt in goode wyne,

Thys church of Alle Sayntes shall be Alle Deuiles' Halle,
And the daye, too, Alle Deuiles and myne.

On the firste of Nouembre thys lordeshippe fayre

My heritage was made,

From noe Saynte dydd I craue ytt by vowe or by prayere,
But I called to the Deuile for ayde.

Longe, longe did I striue, and on hope I leaned,
And att Courte I dyd uainlye toyle,

And his Highnesse was harde tyll I uowed to the fiende
A share in the Churche's spoyle.

Nowe, onn thys daye beginneth a moneth of cloudes,
And of deedes that mayne not bee forgiuen,

When the self-sleyne dedde looke upp from theire shroudes,
See no blew, and despaire of heuen.

And eache yeare thys festiuall daye wee wyl keepe,
Saynte nor angelle a place shal haue,

Butt darke spiritts wyth us shal carouse, pottle deepe,
And we'll welcome suche from the graue.

O there wyll wee mocke the skulles belowe,
And we'll grinne more wyde than theye,

And we'll synge more loude thann the owletts doe,
And louder than preestes wolde praye.

And our dogges wyth eache pate that is bleached and bare
Shall sporte them rounde and rounde,

Or tangle theire jaws in the drye dedde haire,
As theye route in the hollowe grounde.

Att the wildered batte wee wyl loudlye laugh,

As hee flitts rounde hys mansyons olde,

And the earthe worme shal learne the redde wyne to quaff,

As he reeles in his slymie folde.

We wyl barre oute the blessede lyghte fulle welle,
And we'll heare noe lark to disturbe us,

For the larke synges to heuen, butt wee to helle,
Noe hymminge fooles shal curbe us.

A frend in our neede is indeede a frend,

And suche frend was the Deuile to mee;

And thys halle I wyll builde, to thys dutyfulle ende,
That my cuppe fellowe hee may bee.'

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