"His time is not out; Some blunder, no doubt, It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about— I sha'n't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."
When a crafty old hound Claps his nose to the ground, Then throws it up boldly, and bays out, "I've found!" And the Pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it, As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket.
Once on the scent, To business he went, "You Scoundrel, come here, Sir," ('twas Nick that he meant,) "Bring your books here this instant—bestir yourself—do, I've no time to waste on such fellows as you."
Every corner and nook In all Erebus shook, As he struck on the pavement his pastoral crook, All its tenements trembled from basement to roofs, And their nigger inhabitants shook in their hoofs.
Hanging his ears, Yet dissembling his fears, Ledger in hand, straight "Auld Hornie" appears, With that sort of half-sneaking, half-impudent look, Bankrupts sport when cross-question'd by Cresswell or Cooke.
"So Sir-r-r! you are here," Said the Saint with a sneer, "My summons, I trust, did not much interfere With your morning engagements—I merely desire, At your leisure, to know what you've done with my Prior?
"Now, none of your lies, Mr. Nick! I'd advise You to tell me the truth without any disguise, Or-r-r!" The Saint, while his rosy gills seem'd to grow rosier, Here gave another great thump with his Crosier.
Like a small boy at Eton, Who's not quite a Crichton, And don't know his task but expects to be beaten, Nick stammer'd, scarce knowing what answer to make, "Sir, I'm sadly afraid here has been a mistake.
"These things will occur, We are all apt to err, The most cautious sometimes as you know, holy Sir; For my own part—I'm sure I do all that I can— But—the fact is—I fear—we have got the wrong man."
"Wrong man!" roar'd the Saint— But the scene I can't paint, The best colours I have are a vast deal too faint— Nick afterwards own'd that he ne'er knew what fright meant, Before he saw Saint under so much excitement.