Despite Day and Martin, those emulous quacks,
And they all in one spirit of concord agree,
That my blacking is better than any black sea
Which flows thro’ your paltry Avernus, I wis,”—
“Pshaw,” Satan replied, “I’ll be damned if it is.”
The tradesman he laughed at this pitiful sneer,
And drew from his pocket, unmoved by the jeer
Of the gathering dæmons, blue, yellow, and pink,
A bottle of blacking more sable than ink;—
With the waves of the Styx in a jiffey they tried it,