"Wrong man! don't tell me— Pooh!—fiddle-de-dee! What's your right, Scamp, to any man!—come, let me see; I'll teach you, you thorough-paced rascal, to meddle With church matters, come, Sirrah, out with your schedule!"
In support of his claim The Fiend turns to the name Of "De Birchington" written in letters of flame, Below which long items stand, column on column, Enough to have eked out a decent-sized volume!
Sins of all sorts and shapes, From small practical japes, Up to dicings, and drinkings, and murders, and rapes, And then of such standing!—a merciless tick, From an Oxford tobacconist,—let alone Nick.
The Saint in surprise Scarce believed his own eyes, Still he knew he'd to deal with the father of lies, And "So this!—you call this!" he exclaimed in a searching tone, "This!!! the account of my friend Dick de Birchington!"
"Why," said Nick, with an air Of great candour, "it's there Lies the awkwardest part of this awkward affair— I thought all was right—see the height tallies quite, The complexion's what all must consider as light; There's the nose, and the lip, and the ringlets of brown, And the little bald patch on the top of the crown.
"And then the surname, So exactly the same— I don't know—I can't tell how the accident came, But some how—I own it's a very sad job, But—my bailiff grabb'd Dick when he should have nabb'd Bob.
"I am vex'd beyond bounds You should have such good grounds For complaint; I would rather have given five pounds, And any apology, Sir, you may choose, I'll make with much pleasure, and put in the news."
"An apology!—pooh! Much good that will do! An 'apology' quoth a!—and that too from you!— Before any proposal is made of the sort, Bring back your stol'n goods, thief!—produce them in Court!"
In a moment, so small It seem'd no time at all, Father Richard sat up on his what-do-ye-call— Sur son séant—and, what was as wondrous as pleasing, At once began coughing, and snifting, and sneezing.
While, strange to relate, The Knight, whom the fate Of his brother had reach'd, and who'd knocked at the gate, To make farther enquiries, had scarce made his bow To the Saint, ere he vanish'd and no one knew how!