If you're mad enough, you could try fitting this to the tune Wabash Cannonball/Grand Coulee Dam. Hence the first verse.
The world has many legends that the travelling men would tell, Of Robin Hood and Arthur, and of Charlie's fruit-girl Nell. So if you have the patience and an hour or two to spend, Here's one, and give yourself a prize if staying to the end.
A corpse, bedraggled, salt-sea stained, was one time washed ashore, Upon the beach at Chatham, Kent, or so say tales of yore. 'Twas carried to a holy place, near by Saint Bridget's shrine, And next the bless-ed saint interred, still dripping with its brine.
A few days hence, the parish clerk, preparing to retire, Was roused by apparition strange, with eyes that glowed like fire; And thus she spake: "Emanuel, arise and fetch a spade, A man unclean, unpurged of sin, beside me has been laid.
"For Father Fothergill, the monk, has laid that man to rest, With ne'er a sacramental word, he lies there quite unblessed. I cannot bear his grinning face so proximate to me, Emanuel, please dig him up and cast him in the sea." Lit by her emanated glow, he went, with spade in hand, And disinterred that piteous wretch from out that hallowed land. The spectre, to the fearful clerk, her orders did deliver, To fetch the body now with haste, and cast it in the river.
"From out the ocean's deep it came, and thence it should return, It's presence, nigh my resting place," she said,"I hereby spurn." And thus into her sacred shrine Saint Bridget 's ghost did slip, Emanuel likewise to his house, with spade in trembling grip.
The morrow came, The tale was told, and rapidly did spread, And hearing of the miracle, the crowds to Chatham sped; Where Fothergill and humble clerk each gave a benediction, And each, of course, took in return a monetary collection.
* * *
The wind and tide the sailor's fate now bitterly disputed, From Sheerness down to Gillingham alternately 'twas routed, For many days the hapless corpse was thusly tossed around, Until at length it came to land on Baron Shurland's ground.
A servant, Periwinkle, to his master straightway hied, To tell unto the baron what had washed up on the tide. And Shurland, Eating oysters, swallowed four more down then said: "Go empty out his pockets!" whereupon the servant fled.
This latter order, you must see, was pointless ness to ask, For due to wave and monk and clerk - it was a fruitless task. And being thus informed, his lordship most impious raved, And roared at Periwinkle: "Goand dig a double grave!"
So Periwinkle, thus dismissed, rushed quickly 'cross the floor, And half a dozen oyster shells each struck the closing door. Sir Robert, Lord of Sheppey, thus continued his repast, Whilst vilest imprecations on monk Fothergill were cast.
He summoned Father Fothergill, instanter to attend. The latter to the castle hastened, fearing to offend. He found Sir Robert strutting like a game-cock by the grave: "Now Reverend Friar, do my will and bury this foul knave."
"No absolution had this man, My Lord, before he died, And well before his empty corpse was washed up on the tide, You know the man's immortal soul had Travelled down to hell, So futile now his hope of heaven, you realise so well."
"If he hath met the devil, sir, then so shalt thou, thou blackguard!" Thus roared Sir rob, and grasped his sword, to wrench it from the scabbard; It would not budge, some greater hand had caused the blade to stick, So elsewise to the Holy Friar he gave a monstrous kick.
Sir Robert's kicks were famous, from the north unto the south, And headlong flew the monk into the yawning earthen mouth. His grasping fingers failed to find a hold, his flight to check, And so he reached the grave's hard floor, and promptly broke his neck.
The baron gazed upon the priest's remains, and on them spat; "Now throw that ragged rascal in, and tamp the earth down flat. No more will Father Fothergill sit plotting in his cloisters; So fill that pit, you varlets, I'll return now to my oysters."
Some thought Sir Robert hero, and others thought him fool; They knew of one who'd cut the tail from off Saint Thomas' mule, And henceforth grew one of his own, so what would be the fate Of Shurland, who had slain a monk upon his own estate.
Some thought the sainted Bridget once again would show her power, And raise the friar from his pit, some night at midnight's hour; But nay, appeared she not, and some considered her afraid, Of Robert who had ta'en the flower of many a local maid.
* * *
In Canterbury town there stood a monastery fine, Where, peaceful in his quarters, snored its abbot, laid supine. And holiest Saint Austin now appeared beside the bed, Picked up the abbot's jug of wine and threw it o'er his head.
"Wake up, wake up, you drunken sot, arise, put on your britches! How dare you sleep while fellow monks are thrown head first in ditches, And furthermore must share their bed with those too fond of sinning, Whom dearest sister Bridget has herself cast out for grinning.
So get to thee a parchment, write a letter to the Pope, The coroner, the sheriff, have him hanged high from a rope. Then have his house demolished, aye, and raze it to the ground, That hence no trace of Shurland's name upon this earth be found."
The rumours spread around the town: a friar had been killed, A dozen monks, and nuns well kissed, oh how the story thrilled! The mayor declared: "We'll find this man, and go to where he dwells. We'll hang him, broil him, scrape his hide with red-hot oyster shells!"
Meantime, the baron, sleeping late, was breaking yet his fast, When in rushed Periwinkle, and there stood, with eyes downcast. "My Lord, there is a body..." "What! A body yet again?" "Er, no my Lord, this time, I fear, a body of armed men.
"I see Saint Austin's banner, and beyond the sherriff's colours." "Well, curse them all, the drawbridge raise, and lower the portcullis." He drained his cup of wine and forthwithdismiss-ed his vassal, Then stamped in temper foul up to the rampants of his castle.
Before him, on the ground below, a herald met his sight, While yonder on a hillock arm-ed men, to left and right. "Sir Robert, Lord of Sheppey, 'tis of murder you're accused. Surrender, for the sheriff's edict may not be refused."
"Go take your sheriff's edicts cur, consign them to the devil!" Thus quoth Sir Robert, but then perceived at him the weapons level. And as the missiles flew apace, in answer to his call, Discretion thought our hero best, returning to the hall.
The siege continued all that day, and eveningtide approached, When in rushed Periwinkle: "Sire, the outer wall's been broached!" The baron thus now donned his sword, and ventured to the fray, And many legs and arms and heads went missing on that day.
Sir Robert, hero of crusades, had Arabs slain for fun, But now he fought for house and land, and ere the set of sun, His enemies had faltered, paused, and run like frightened geese, And left him to his victory, and for a while in peace.
* * *
The abbot, friends, you may recall, had sent Saint Austin's screed To Boniface, eighth of that name, corruptest of the breed, And by return this Roman Pope announced in Latin patois, That he declared upon Sir Rob what we'd now call a fatois.
He threatened death then purgatory, a million years and more, To any truly Christian, who'd not even up the score. So you may think these dire words would cause Bob perturbation, But church and state, as oft the case, had had an altercation.
And thus Sir Robertbided there, and yet his hopes were full: King Edward would play matador and slay the papal bull. For if the monarch he could reach, explain this trifling thing, 'Twas nothing short of certain that a pardon this would bring.
King Edward, in his war with France was bent, on this occasion, On gathering a seaborne force and mount a great invasion, And soon would come, to see the troops, who by the Thames were massing; So Robert thinks: "I'll catch the royal barge as it is passing."
He mounted on his massive steed, Whose name it was Grey Dolphin, And spurred it to the river's edge, no further time for loafin'. Two miles across the thames wide mouth they swam up to the barge, The steersman crying What's this here? A mermaid roams at large!"
Some cried "No it's a grampus, or the devil, or a whale!" But no, 'twas but Sir Robert, and the king he now did hail:
The pardon granted, old Grey Dolphin swam on in the river, Thrice round the barge while waiting for the king's clerk to deliver.
At last 'twas done, and knight and steed swam bravely back to shore, A mighty feat of effort and no man could hope for more. Sir Robert lighted from his back, and slackened off his girth, And praised effusively his steed, and revelled in his mirth.
A brief aside, now, if I may, to give some explanation, Of why the king should grant this boon and risk church condemnation: Sir Robert, in the holy wars, had fought at Edward's side, And several score of Saracens by Shurland's sword had died.
At Acre, when the king-to-be was stabbed by poisoned blade, And Eleanor of Aquitaine ran up to give him aid, To suck the venom from the wound she valiantly did rush, And Robert to the gallant maid then offered his toothbrush. But let us now return our gaze to robert, on the shore, The tale is not yet ended, I'm afraid there's plenty more... A fearsome female cackle sent a shiver through his bones, And therestood on the river bank the ugliest of crones.
"Well may you praise your steed, my lord; but hark to this instruction: That self same beast, in future time, will hasten your destruction." He swiveled round to see the hag, but lo, she'd swiftly vanished, But what she'd spoken, from his mind, he found could not be banished.
He took the sweating horse's head, and set off for his dwelling, But in his ears he seemed to hear the mournful death bell knelling. His mind grew darker as he strode, his heart grew full of dread, And then he took his mighty sword, struck off Grey Dolphin's head.
"So much for you, old beldam, now he'll never do me harm." And then continued homeward and regained an outward calm. "I've never known a prophecy that ever came to much. Belief in superstition I will leave to French and Dutch."
* * *
A year passed by, and peace with France, but now a new marauder, Was threatening King Edward, on England's northern border. An upstart, William Wallace, known as Braveheart to his men, Was kicking up a rumpus, So the battle raged again.
As payment for his pardon, Bob, his loyalty had pledged, And so set off to show the Scots his mighty sword's keen edge. And thus with king and colleagues o'er that northerrn land did roam, For two more years and then set sail returning to his home.
Alighting on his native shore, he utter-ed a groan, For squatting on a horse's skull he saw the self-same crone. He turned away, then looking back, she'd vanished yet again, His temper raged; he kicked the skull forthwith, into the main.
His kicks they were prodigious, as they were in days of yore, His boots however fared less well in all these years of war; For as he struck the horse's skull, a cry he made: "Forsooth!" And searching toewards there he found a piece of horse's tooth.
I know this tale's been brief, but yet I'll even cut it shorter: The baron died of gangrene, but he left the world a daughter; She married some bloke Ingoldsby, but I'll not tell you more, I see from all your faces that you're just about to snore.
* * *
A moral to this story? Well there really ain't a lot. It's quite all right to murder Frenchmen, Saracen or Scot, But if you raise your hand or foot, against ecclesiastics, Your life will henceforth be quite short, and surely not fantastic.
Or maybe there's another one, that's far less bellicose: Make sure you wear some decent boots or else you'll stub your toes. So go and see your cobbler, friends, and keep your boots repaired, Then he and you will prosper, and with luck your life be spared.
-Tiddy Ogg 6 Feb 2001.
The main source for the above is from the Ingoldsby Legends; or Mirth and Marvels. London: Richard Bentley, 1866. 37-55. It is as irreverent as my treatment. I found it on the web using the words: "Grey Dolphin Shurland" in Google.
Sir Robert de Shurland is buried in Minster abbey, and his tomb bears the carving of the knight and a horse's head. He died in approx. 1300 a.d.
Last updated: Wed, 7 Feb 2001.