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;—