The Childe sought his father, and begged his forgiveness for the curse he had brought on the Hall.
“Thy sin is pardoned,” said his father; “but go thou to the Wise Woman of Brugeford, and find if aught can free us from this monster.”
To the Wise Woman went the Childe, and asked her advice.
“’T is thy fault, O Childe, for which we suffer,” she said; “be it thine to release us.”
“I would give my life,” said the Childe.
“Mayhap thou wilt do so,” said she. “But hear me, and mark me well. Thou, and thou alone, canst kill the Worm. But, to this end, go thou to the smithy and have thy armour studded with spear-heads. Then go to the Worm’s Rock in the Wear, and station thyself there. Then, when the Worm comes to the Rock at dawn of day, try thy prowess on him, and God gi’e thee a good deliverance.”
“This I will do,” said Childe Lambton.
“But one thing more,” said the Wise Woman, going back to her cell. “If thou slay the Worm, swear that thou wilt put to death the first thing that meets thee as thou crossest again the threshold of Lambton Hall. Do this, and all will be well with thee and thine. Fulfil not thou vow, and none of the Lambtons, for generations three times three, shall die in his bed. Swear, and fail not.”
The Childe swore as the Wise Woman bid, and went his way to the smithy. There he had his armour studded with spear-heads all over. Then he passed his vigils in Brugeford Chapel, and at dawn of day took his post on the Worm’s Rock in the River Wear.
As dawn broke, the Worm uncoiled its snaky twine from around the hill, and came to its rock in the river. When it perceived the Childe waiting for it, it lashed the waters in its fury and wound its coils round the Childe, and then attempted to crush him to death. But the more it pressed, the deeper dug the spear-heads into its sides. Still it pressed and pressed, till all the water around was crimsoned with its blood. Then the Worm unwound itself, and left the Childe free to use his sword. He raised it, brought it down, and cut the Worm in two. One half fell into the river, and was carried swiftly away. Once more the head and the remainder of the body encircled the Childe, but with less force, and the spear-heads did their work. At last the Worm uncoiled itself, snorted its last foam of blood and fire, and rolled dying into the river, and was never seen more.
The Childe of Lambton swam ashore, and raising his bugle to his lips, sounded its note thrice. This was the signal to the Hall, where the servants and the old lord had shut themselves in to pray for the Childe’s success. When the third sound of the bugle was heard, they were to release Boris, the Childe’s favourite hound. But such was their joy at learning of the Childe’s safety and the Worm’s defeat, that they forgot orders, and when the Childe reached the threshold of the Hall his old father rushed out to meet him, and would have clasped him to his breast.
“The vow! the vow!” cried out the Childe of Lambton, and blew still another blast upon his horn. This time the servants remembered, and released Boris, who came bounding to his young master. The Childe raised his shining sword, and severed the head of his faithful hound.
But the vow was broken, and for nine generations of men none of the Lambtons died in his bed. The last of the Lambtons died in his carriage as he was crossing Brugeford Bridge, one hundred and thirty years ago.
The Wise Men of Gotham
There were two men of Gotham, and one of them was going to market to Nottingham to buy sheep, and the other came from the market, and they both met together upon Nottingham bridge.
“Where are you going?” said the one who came from Nottingham.
“Marry,” said he that was going to Nottingham, “I am going to buy sheep.”
“Buy sheep?” said the other, “and which way will you bring them home?”
“Marry,” said the other, “I will bring them over this bridge.”
“By Robin Hood,” said he that came from Nottingham, “but thou shalt not.”
“By Maid Marion,” said he that was going thither, “but I will.”
“You will not,” said the one.
“I will.”
Then they beat their staves against the ground one against the other, as if there had been a hundred sheep between them.
“Hold in,” said one; “beware lest my sheep leap over the bridge.”
“I care not,” said the other; “they shall not come this way.”
“But they shall,” said the other.
Then the other said: “If that thou make much to do, I will put my fingers in thy mouth.”
“Will you?” said the other.
Now, as they were at their contention, another man of Gotham came from the market with a sack of meal upon a horse, and seeing and hearing his neighbours at strife about sheep, though there were none between them, said:
“Ah, fools! will you ever learn wisdom? Help me, and lay my sack upon my shoulders.”
They did so, and he went to the side of the bridge, unloosened the mouth of the sack, and shook all his meal out into the river.
“Now, neighbours,” he said, “how much meal is there in my sack?”
“Marry,” said they, “there is none at all.”
“Now, by my faith,” said he, “even as much wit as is in your two heads to stir up strife about a thing you have not.”
Which was the wisest of these three persons, judge yourself.
Once upon a time the men of Gotham would have kept the Cuckoo so that she might sing all the year, and in the midst of their town they made a hedge round in compass and they got a Cuckoo, and put her into it, and said, “Sing there all through the year, or thou shalt have neither meat nor water.” The Cuckoo, as soon as she perceived herself within the hedge, flew away. “A vengeance on her!” said they. “We did not make our hedge high enough.”
There was a man of Gotham who went to the market at Nottingham to sell cheese, and as he was going down the hill to Nottingham bridge, one of his cheeses fell out of his wallet and rolled down the hill. “Ah, gaffer,” said the fellow, “can you run to market alone? I will send one after another after you.”
Then he laid down his wallet and took out the cheeses, and rolled them down the hill. Some went into one bush; and some went into another.
“I charge you all to meet me near the market-place;” and when the fellow came to the market to meet his cheeses, he stayed there till the market was nearly done. Then he went about to inquire of his friends and neighbours, and other men, if they did see his cheeses come to the market.
“Who should bring them?” said one of the market men.
“Marry, themselves,” said the fellow; “they know the way well enough.”
He said, “A vengeance on them all. I did fear, to see them run so fast, that they would run beyond the market. I am now fully persuaded that they must be now almost at York.” Whereupon he forthwith hired a horse to ride to York, to seek his cheeses where they were not, but to this day no man can tell him of his cheeses.