My goodness!—the look that the old Palmer gave! And his frown!—'twas quite dreadful to witness—"Why, slave! You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to Me!! —At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee, And hand me that curly-wig'd boy!—I command it— Come!—none of your nonsense!—you know I won't stand it."
Old Nicholas trembled,—he shook in his shoes, And seem'd half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. "Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be, —For you've had your own way from the first time I knew ye;— Take your curly-wig'd brat, and much good may he do ye! But I'll have in exchange—"—here his eye flash'd with rage— "That chap with the buttons—he gave me the Page!"
"Come, come," the Saint answer'd, "you very well know The young man's no more his than your own to bestow— Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick—no! no! Cut your stick, sir—come, mizzle!—be off with you!—go!"— The Devil grew hot— "If I do I'll be shot! An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what; He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not! Why, you Skinflint,—at least You may leave us the feast! Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode, Ten million good leagues, Sir, as ever you strode, And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road— —'Go!'—'Mizzle!' indeed—Mr. Saint, who are you, I should like to know?—'Go!'—I'll be hang'd if I do! He invited us all—we've a right here—it's known That a Baron may do what he likes with his own— Here, Asmodeus—a slice of that beef!—now the mustard!— What have you got?—oh, apple-pie—try it with custard!"
The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws, And they might be on his side—and then, he'd such claws! On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire With the curly-wig'd boy he'd pick'd out of the fire, And give up the victuals—to retrace his path, And to compromise—(spite of the Member for Bath). So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turn'd on his heel, He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal. And the soup à la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel. As The Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel I can't well turn you out—'twould be hardly genteel— But be moderate, pray,—and remember thus much, Since you're treated as Gentlemen, shew yourselves such, And don't make it late, But mind and go straight Home to bed when you've finish'd—and don't steal the plate! Nor wrench off the knocker—or bell from the gate. Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace, And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!"
Having thus said his say, That Palmer grey Took up little Le Scroope, and walk'd coolly away, While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurray!" Then fell, tooth and claw, on the victuals, as they Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor's day, All scrambling and scuffling for what was before 'em, No care for precedence or common decorum. Few ate more hearty Than Madame Astarte, And Hecate,—considered the Belles of the party, Between them was seated Leviathan, eager To "do the polite," and take wine with Belphegor; Here was Morbleu (a French devil), supping soup-meagre, And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar (A Welsh one), who'd left the domains of Ap Morgan, To "follow the sea,"—and next him Demogorgon,— Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers. Who'd joined with Medusa to get up "the Lancers;" —Here's Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale, While Beëlzebub's tying huge knots in his tail. There's Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles Gave him the lie, Said he'd "blacken his eye," And dash'd in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;— Ramping, and roaring, Hiccoughing, snoring,— Never was seen such a riot before in A gentleman's house, or such profligate revelling At any soirée—where they don't let the Devil in.
Hark!—as sure as fate The clock's striking Eight! (An hour which our ancestors called "getting late,") When Nick, who by this time was rather elate, Rose up and addressed them. "'Tis full time," he said, "For all elderly Devils to be in their bed; For my own part I mean to be jogging, because I don't find myself now quite so young as I was; But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post, I must call on you all for one bumper—the toast Which I have to propose is,—Our excellent host! —Many thanks for his kind hospitality—may We also be able To see at our table Himself, and enjoy, in a family way, His good company down stairs at no distant day! You'd, I'm sure, think me rude If I did not include In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wig'd Heir. He's in very good hands, for you're all well aware That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care; Though I must not say 'bless,'— —Why, you'll easily guess,— May our Curly-wig'd Friend's shadow never be less!" Nick took off his heel-taps—bow'd—smiled—with an air Most graciously grim,—and vacated the chair,— Of course the elite Rose at once on their feet, And followed their leader, and beat a retreat; When a sky-larking Imp took the President's seat, And, requesting that each would replenish his cup, Said, "Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!"— —It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!
I scarcely need say Sir Guy didn't delay To fulfil his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay For the candles he'd promised, or make light as day The shrine he assured him he'd render so gay. In fact, when the votaries came there to pray, All said there was nought to compare with it—nay, For fear that the Abbey Might think he was shabby, Four Brethren thenceforward, two cleric, two lay, He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry, With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry; In short, the whole County Declared, through his bounty, The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines,[49] And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.
For the rest, it is said, And I know I have read In some Chronicle—whose, has gone out of my head— That, what with these candles, and other expenses, Which no man would go to if quite in his senses, He reduced, and brought low His property so, That, at last, he'd not much of it left to bestow; And that, many years after that terrible feast, Sir Guy in the Abbey was living a Priest; And there, in one thousand and—something,—deceased. (It's supposed by this trick He bamboozled Old Nick, And slipped through his fingers remarkably "slick"), While, as to young Curly-wig,—dear little Soul, Would you know more of him, you must look at "The Roll," Which records the dispute, And the subsequent suit, Commenced in "Thirteen sev'nty-five,"—which took root In Le Grosvenor's assuming the arms Le Scroope swore That none but his ancestors, ever before, In foray, joust, battle, or tournament wore, To wit, "On a Prussian-blue Field, a Bend Or;"— While the Grosvenor averred that his ancestors bore The same, and Scroope lied like a—somebody tore Off the simile,—so I can tell you no more, Till some A double S shall the fragment restore.[50]
Moral.