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!—