Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

And see that fifty choristers
Beside the bier attend me,

And day and night, by the tapers' light,
With holy hymns defend me.

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 body 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;

Keep 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 blessed the old woman's winding-sheet

With rites and prayers 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 bless'd 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 sacred choristers
Beside the bier attend her,

Who, day and night, by the tapers' light,
Should with holy hymns defend her.

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

After the even-song.

And the first night the tapers' 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 undisturbed the choristers sing,
And the fifty priests they pray.

The second night the tapers' light

Burnt dismally and blue,

And every one saw his neighbor'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 the 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 pray'd to heaven for aid
They never had pray'd so before.

The cock he crew, away they flew,
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturbed 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 of it grew 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 tapers' light was extinguished quite,
And the choristers faintly sung,

And the priests, dismay'd, panted and pray'd
Till fear froze every tongue.

And in he came, with eyes of flame,
The devil to fetch the dead,

And all the church with his presence glow'd
Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hands 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 fiend he flung her on the horse,

And he leaped 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 scream'd with fear.

UNCLE GABE'S WHITE FOLKS.

From Scribner's Monthly.

Sarvent, marster. Yes, sah, dat's me, "Ole Uncle Gabe" 's my name; Thankee, marster, I'm 'bout, yo' see;

An' d' ole ooman? she's much de same-

T. N. PAGE.

Po'ly an' 'plainin', thank de Lord!

But de marster's gwine t' come back from 'broad. "Fine ole place?" Yes, sah, 'tis so,

An' mighty fine people my white folks wair,
But yo' oughter 'a' seen it years ago,

When d' marster an' d' mistis lived up deyre;
When de niggers 'd stan' all 'roun' de do'
Like grains ob corn on d' corn-house flo'.

"Lived mons'us high?" Yes, marster, yes.
Cut 'n onroyal 'n' 'gordly dash,

Eat an' drink till yo' couldn't res'.

My folks warn't none o' yo' po' white trash; 'N', sah, dey wuz ob high degree,

Dis hyre nigger am quality.

"Tell yo' 'bout 'em?" Yo' mus' 'a' hearn
'Bout my ole white folks, sho!

I tell yo', sah, dey wuz gret an' stern,
Didn' hav' nothin' tall to learn,

D' knowed all dat d' wuz to know.

Gol' ober d' head an' under d' feet,

An' silver!-d' sowed like some folks sow wheat.

"Use' to b' rich ?" Dat warn't de word

Jes' wallowed an' roll' in wealf.

Why, none o' my white folks ever stirred
To lif' a han' fo' d' self;

D' niggers use' to be standin' 'roun'

'S same es leaves when d' fus' fall down.
De stable-stalls up hyar at home
Look' like teef in a fine toof-comb;

De cattle wuz 'digious-mus' tell de fac'!
An' de hogs mec' de hill-sides look like black,
'N' de flocks ob sheep wuz so gret an' white,
Dey 'peared like clouds on a moonshine night,
'N' when my 'I missis use' to walk
(Jes' t' her kerridge-dat wuz fur
'S ever she walked), I tell you, sir,
Yo' could almos' hyar her silk dress talk;