III.

The meal was over at Pittenweem; The monks had gone to their cells to dream, Or heavily sleep, as the case might be, Till waked by the bell at half-past three; The Abbot had gone to his private tower, For _he_ sat up till a later hour, And oft he would have his under-prior To sit and talk by the cosy fire; For Abbots of old, you may suppose, Could do in such matters as they chose, And here, from the mill-stream’s outer loch To the tippest top of the weather-cock, Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme―― Such was the custom of Pittenweem.