In good king Dagobert's palmy days,
When Saints were many, and sins were few,
Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested
One evening,—and could not tell what to do.—
He had been East, and he had been West,
And far had he journeyed o'er land and sea;
For women and men Were warier then,
And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.
He had been North, and he had been South,
From Zembla's shores unto far Peru,
Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back—
Saints were so many, and sins so few!
The way was long, and the day was hot;
His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore;
And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail,
As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore!
The day had been hot, and the way was long;
—Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint was he;
He lower'd his sack, And the heat of his back
As he leaned on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree!
He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade,
And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight,
As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide
He had sewn for a sack, and had cramm'd so tight.
For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground,"
And game had been scarce, he might well report
That still he had got A decentish lot,
And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.
He had pick'd up in France a Maître de Danse,—
A Maîtresse en titre,—two smart Grisettes,
A Courtier at play,— And an English Roué—
Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.—
—He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk,
A Quaker,—a Baker,—a Doctor of Laws,—
And a Jockey of York— But Paddy from Cork
"Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws!
In Moscow, a Boyar knouting his wife
—A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece—
And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome,
He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.—
He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain—
A mendicant Friar—of Monks a score;
A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew,
Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.
And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips,
"Those nice little Dears!—what a delicate roast!—
—Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!"
—At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice
Never did mouth water more than Nick's;
But,—alas! and alack!— He had stuff'd his sack
So full that he found himself quite "in a fix:"
For, all he could do, or all he could say,
When, a little recruited, he rose to go,
Alas! and alack! He could not get the sack
Up again on his shoulders "whether or no!"
Old Nick look'd East, old Nick look'd West,
With many a stretch, and with many a strain,
He bent till his back Was ready to crack,
And he pull'd and he tugg'd,—but he tugg'd in vain.
Old Nick look'd North, old Nick look'd South;
—Weary was Nicholas, weak, and faint,—
And he was aware Of an old man there,
In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint.
Nick eyed the Saint,—then he eyed the Sack—
The greedy old glutton!—and thought, with a grin,
—"Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive
To pop that elderly gentleman in!—
"For, were I to choose among all the ragoûts
The cuisine can exhibit—flesh, fowl, or fish,—
To myself I can paint, That a barbecued Saint
Would be for my palate the best side-dish!"—
Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile,
—In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea.
(We call it "Semiramis," Why not say Pyramis?—
Why should we change the S into a D?)
St. Medard, he was a holy man,
A holy man I ween was he,
And even by day, When he went to pray,
He would light up a candle, that all might see!
He salaam'd to the East,—He salaam'd to the West;—
—Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown
Were his Palmer's weeds,— And he finger'd his beads
With the right side up, and the wrong side down.—
(Hiatus in MSS. valde deflendus.)
St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile;—
He had been living there years fourscore,—
And now, "taking the air, And saying a pray'r,"
He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.
Little he deem'd—that Holy man!—
Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,—
When he was aware Of a Stranger there,
Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix.
Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd,
That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey:—
"I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!—
Oh! lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray!—
"For I have been East, and I have been West,
Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I,
And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome,
Here in this desert I well may die!"
"Now Heav'n thee save!"—Nick winced at the words,
As ever he winces at words divine—
"Now Heav'n thee save!— What strength I have,—
It's little, I wis,—shall be freely thine!
"For foul befall that Christian man
Who shall fail, in a fix,—woe worth the while!—
His hand to lend To foe, or to friend,
Or to help a lame dog over a stile!"—
—St. Medard hath boon'd himself for the task:
To hoist up the sack he doth well begin;
But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels,
For the folks are all curling, and kicking within.—
St. Medard paused—he began to "smoke"—
For a Saint,—if he isn't exactly a cat,—
Has a very good nose, As this world goes,
And not worse than his neighbour's for "smelling a rat."
The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down;
He "smelt the rat," and he "smoked" the trick;
—When he came to view His comical shoe,
He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!
He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen—
A Brummagem blade which he always bore,
To aid him to eat, By way of a treat,
The "natives" he found on the Red Sea shore;—
He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen,
And he made three slits in the Buffalo's hide,
And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents,
Came tumbling out,—and away they all hied!
Away went the Quaker,—away went the Baker,
Away went the Friar—that fine fat Ghost,
Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!
—Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,—
And the pretty Grisettes—and the Dons from Spain,—
And the Corsair's Crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,—
And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain!—
Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best,
Ay, e'en when he's pleased; but never before
Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack
Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore.
You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair,
When he saw himself thus befool'd by one
Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled
"A stupid old snuff-colour'd Son of a gun!"
Then his supper—so nice!—that had cost him such pains—
—Such a hard day's work—now "all on the go!"
—'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke
The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below!
Nick snatch'd up one of those great big stones,
Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains,
And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate,
To knock out "the gruel he call'd his brains."
Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight,
The crushing weight of that great big stone;—
But Saint Medard Was remarkably hard
And solid about the parietal bone.
And though the whole weight of that great big stone
Came straight on his pate, with a great big thump,
It fail'd to graze The skin,—or to raise
On the tough epidermis a lump, or bump!—