The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

In good King Dagobert's palmy days,
When Saints were many, and sins were few,
Old Nick, 'tis said, Was sore bested
One evening,—and could not tell what to do.—

He had been East, and he had been West,
And far had he journey'd o'er land and sea;
For women and men Were warier then,
And he could not catch one where he'd now catch three.

He had been North, and he had been South,
From Zembla's shores unto far Peru,
Ere he fill'd the sack Which he bore on his back—
Saints were so many, and sins so few!

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The way was long, and the day was hot;
His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore;
And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail,
As it furrow'd the sand on the Red Sea shore!

The day had been hot, and the way was long;
—Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint, was he;
He lower'd his sack, And the heat of his back,
As he lean'd on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree!

He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade,
And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight,
As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide
He had sewn for a sack, and had crammed so tight.

For, though he'd “gone over a good deal of ground,”
And game had been scarce, he might well report
That still, he had got A decentish lot,
And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.

He had pick'd up in France a Maître de danse,—
A Maîtresse en titre,—two smart Grisettes,
A Courtier at play,— And an English Roué—
Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.—

—He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk,
A Quaker,—a Baker,—a Doctor of Laws,—
And a jockey of York— But Paddy from Cork
“Desaved the ould divil,” and slipp'd through his claws!

In Moscow a Boyar knouting his wife
—A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece—
And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome,
He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.—

He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain—
A mendicant Friar—of Monks a score,
A grave Don, or two, And a Portuguese Jew,
Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.

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And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips,
“Those nice little Dears!—what a delicate roast!—
—Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and serv'd on toast!”

—At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice
Never did mouth water more than Nick's;
But,—alas! and alack!— He had stuff'd his sack
So full that he found himself quite “in a fix:”

For, all he could do, or all he could say,
When, a little recruited, he rose to go,
Alas! and alack!— He could not get the sack
Up again on his shoulders “whether or no!”

Old Nick look'd East, Old Nick look'd West,
With many a stretch, and with many a strain,
He bent till his back Was ready to crack,
And he pull'd, and he tugg'd,—but he tugg'd in vain.

Old Nick look'd North, Old Nick look'd South;
—Weary was Nicholas, weak and faint,—
And he was aware Of an old man there,
In Palmer's weeds, who look'd much like a Saint.

Nick eyed the Saint,—then he eyed the Sack—
The greedy old glutton!—and thought, with a grin,
“Dear heart alive! If I could but contrive
To pop that elderly gentleman in!—

“For were I to choose among all the ragoûts
The cuisine can exhibit—flesh, fowl, or fish,—
To myself I can paint That a barbecued Saint
Would be for my palate the best side-dish!”

Now St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile,
—In a Pyramis fast by the lone Red Sea.
(We call it “Semiramis,” Why not say Pyramis?—
Why should we change the S into a D?)

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St. Medard, he was a holy man,
A holy man I ween was he,
And even by day, When he went to pray,
He would light up a candle, that all might see!

He salaam'd to the East,—He salaam'd to the West;—
—Of the gravest cut, and the holiest brown
Were his Palmer's weeds,— And he finger'd his beads
With the right side up, and the wrong side down.—