With many a mean, And many a groan, What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de

Cologne,

He revived,

throne,

Reason once more remounted her

Or rather the instinct of Nature, -'twere treason

To Her, in the Scroope's case, perhaps, to say

Reason,

But what saw he then?-Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright!-

In that broad banquet hall The fiends one and
all,
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small
Pretty, curly-wigg'd boy, as if playing at ball:
Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue, or rush up the stair,

And bring down in safety his curly-wigg'd Heir!

Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the mêlée, E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand," have, for once, lost their

sway,

And there the Knight stands, Wringing his hands

In his agony-when on a sudden, one ray

Of hope darts through his midriff!-His Saint!--Oh, it's

funny,

And almost absurd, That it never occurr'd!

"Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!-He's the man for my money!

Saint-who is it?-really I'm sadly to blame, -
On my word I'm afraid, -I confess it with shame,-
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name, -
Outlet me see - Cutbeard? - no!

egad

CUTHBERT!

St. Cuthbert of Bolton!-I'm right-he's the lad!
Oh, holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-

Of myself I say little, -have knelt at your shrine,
And have lashed their bare backs, and no matter-

with twine,

Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now!

Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-

wow,

And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow !

Bring him back here in safety!- perform but this

task,

And I'll give ! - Oh! - I'll give you whatever you

ask!

There is not a shrine In the County shall shine

With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!-
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then, -hasten in pity!"

-Conceive his surprise When a strange voice

replies,

"It's a bargain! - but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPER

MACETI!"

Say, whose is that voice? - whose that form by his side,

That old, old, grey man, with his beard long and wide,

In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?

And, how did he come?- did he walk?-did he

ride?

Oh! none could determine, oh! none could decide,

The fact is, I don't believe any one tried,
For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride,

And without a word more, He march'd on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front

door,

To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigg'd Heir.
-I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided, though mild,
"Come! - I'll trouble you just to hand over that

child!"

The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed;

Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply,

All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk.

He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,

And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get

it?"

My goodness!--the look that the old Palmer gave! And his frown! - 'twas quite dreadful to witness

"Why, slave!

You rascal!" quoth he, "This language to
ΜΕ!!

-At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,

And hand me that curly-wigg'd boy! - I command

it

Come!-none of your nonsense! - you know I won't stand it."

Old Nicholas trembled,-he shook in his shoes,
And seem'd half inclined, but afraid, to refuse.

"Well, Cuthbert," said he, "If so it must be, -For you've had your own way from the first time I

knew ye;

Take your curly-wigg'd brat, and much good may he do ye!