And now what a din Without and within! For the court-yard is full of them.—How they begin To mop, and to mowe, and make faces, and grin! Cock their tails up together, Like cows in hot weather, And butt at each other, all eating and drinking, The viands and wine disappearing like winking. And then such a lot As together had got! Master Cabbage, the steward, who'd made a machine To calculate with, and count noses,—I ween The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,— Declared, when he'd made, By the said machine's aid, Up, what's now called, the "tottle" of those he survey'd, There were just—how he proved it I cannot divine,— Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety, and nine, Exclusive of Him, Who, giant in limb, And black as the crow they denominate Jim, With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear, Stands forth at the window,—and what holds he there, Which he hugs with such care, And pokes out in the air, And grasps as its limbs from each other he'd tear? Oh! grief and despair! I vow and declare It's Le Scroope's poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wig'd Heir! Whom the nurse had forgot, and left there in his chair, Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear!
What words can express The dismay and distress Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess His cursing and banning had now got him into? That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too, Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison Placed in the hands of the Devil's own "pal" his son!— He sobb'd, and he sigh'd, And he scream'd, and he cried, And behaved like a man that is mad, or in liquor,—he Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his "Vicary,"[48] Stamped on the jasey, As though he were crazy, And staggering about just as if he were "hazy," Exclaimed, "Fifty pounds!" (a large sum in those times,) "To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs To that window above there, en ogive, and painted, And brings down my curly-wi'——" here Sir Guy fainted!
With many a moan And many a groan, What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne, He revived,—Reason once more remounted her throne, Or rather the instinct of Nature,—'twere treason To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say Reason,— But what saw he then?—Oh! my goodness! a sight Enough to have banished his reason outright! In that broad banquet hall The fiends, one and all, Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall, From one to another were tossing that small, Pretty, curly-wig'd boy, as if playing at ball: Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair, And bring down in safety his curly-wig'd Heir!
Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the mélée, E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their sway, And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands In his agony—when, on a sudden, one ray Of hope darts through his midriff!—His Saint!—Oh, it's funny, And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!— "Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!—he's the man for my money! Saint—who is it?—really I'm sadly to blame,— On my word I'm afraid,—I confess it with shame,— That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,— Cut—let me see—Cutbeard?—no!—Cuthbert!—egad St. Cuthbert of Bolton!—I'm right—he's the lad! Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine— Of myself I say little,—have knelt at your shrine, And have lash'd their bare backs, and—no matter—with twine, Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now, Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! Bring him back here in safety!—perform but this task, And I'll give!—Oh!—I'll give you whatever you ask!— There is not a shrine In the County shall shine With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!— Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,—hasten in pity!"— —Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies, "It's a bargain!—but, mind, sir, The best Spermaceti!"—
THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.
Say, whose that voice?—whose that form by his side, That old, old grey man, with his beard long and wide, In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?— And, how did he come?—did he walk?—did he ride?— Oh! none could determine,—oh! none could decide,— The fact is, I don't believe any one tried, For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride, And without a word more, He march'd on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor, While the fiendish assembly were making a rare Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wig'd Heir.— —I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between, With his resolute air, and his dignified mien, And said, in a tone most decided, though mild, "Come!—I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!"
The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed; Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply, All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seem'd by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk, He quailed not before it, but saucily met it, And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"