Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.

St. Michael’s Mount

St. Michael’s Chair

By Robert Southey (1774–1843)

MERRILY, merrily rung the bells,

The bells of St. Michael’s tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife

Arrived at St. Michael’s door.

Richard Penlake was a cheerful man,

Cheerful and frank and free;

But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife,

For a terrible shrew was she.

Richard Penlake a scolding would take,

Till patience availed no longer;

Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take,

And show her that he was the stronger.

Rebecca his wife had often wished

To sit in St. Michael’s chair;

For she should be the mistress then

If she had once sat there.

It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick;

They thought he would have died:

Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life,

As she knelt by his bedside.

“Now hear my prayer, St. Michael! and spare

My husband’s life,” quoth she;

“And to thine altar we will go,

Six marks to give to thee.”

Richard Penlake repeated the vow;

For woundily sick was he:

“Save me, St. Michael! and we will go,

Six marks to give to thee.”

When Richard grew well, Rebecca his wife

Teased him by night and by day:

“O mine own dear! for you I fear,

If we the vow delay.”

Merrily, merrily rung the bells,

The bells of St. Michael’s tower,

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife

Arrived at St. Michael’s door.

Six marks they on the altar laid,

And Richard knelt in prayer:

She left him to pray, and stole away

To sit in St. Michael’s chair.

Up the tower Rebecca ran,

Round and round and round:

’T was a giddy sight to stand atop,

And look upon the ground.

“A curse on the ringers for rocking

The tower!” Rebecca cried,

As over the church battlements

She strode with a long stride.

“A blessing on St. Michael’s chair!”

She said, as she sat down:

Merrily, merrily rung the bells,

And out Rebecca was thrown.

Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought,

That his good wife was dead:

“Now shall we toll for her poor soul

The great church-bell?” they said.

“Toll at her burying,” quoth Richard Penlake,

“Toll at her burying,” quoth he;

“But don’t disturb the ringers now,

In compliment to me.”