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.)