“We will woo,” cried Old Nick, “good St. Gladstone’s eyes
Off from that excellent book.
We will cluster around him in strange disguise,
And plague him with shindies and Party cries,
And bother his bosom with phantasies,
That he upon us may look.”
So they came to the Saint in a motley crew
A heterogeneous rout.
There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked yellow, and some looked blue,