The Ingoldsby Legends :: :: University of Virginia Library

St. Medard dwelt on the banks of the Nile;—
He had been living there years fourscore,—
And now, “taking the air, And saying a pray'r,”
He was walking at eve on the Red Sea shore.

Little he deem'd—that holy man!—
Of Old Nick's wiles, and his fraudful tricks,—
When he was aware Of a Stranger there,
Who seem'd to have got himself into a fix.

Deeply that Stranger groan'd and sigh'd,
That wayfaring Stranger, grisly and grey:—
“I can't raise my sack On my poor old back!—
Oh, lend me a lift, kind Gentleman, pray!—

“For I have been East, and I have been West,
Foot-sore, weary, and faint am I,
And, unless I get home Ere the Curfew bome,
Here in this desert I well may die!”

“Now Heav'n thee save!”—Nick winced at the words,
As ever he winces at words divine—
“Now Heav'n thee save!— What strength I have,—
It's little, I wis,—shall be freely thine!

“For foul befall that Christian man
Who shall fail, in a fix,—woe worth the while!—
His hand to lend To foe or to friend,
Or to help a lame dog over a stile!”

205

—St. Medard hath boon'd himself for the task:
To hoist up the sack he doth well begin;
But the fardel feels Like a bag full of eels,
For the folks are all curling, and kicking within.—

St. Medard paused—he began to “smoke”—
For a Saint,—if he isn't exactly a cat,—
Has a very good nose, As this world goes,
And not worse than his neighbour's for “smelling a rat.”

The Saint look'd up, and the Saint look'd down;
He “smelt the rat,” and he “smoked” the trick;
—When he came to view His comical shoe,
He saw in a moment his friend was Nick!

He whipp'd out his oyster-knife, broad and keen—
A Brummagem blade which he always bore,
To aid him to eat, By way of a treat,
The “natives” he found on the Red Sea shore;—

He whipp'd out his Brummagem blade so keen,
And he made three slits in the Buffalo's hide,
And all its contents, Through the rents, and the vents,
Come tumbling out,—and away they all hied!

Away went the Quaker—away went the Baker,
Away went the Friar—that fine fat Ghost,
Whose marrow Old Nick Had intended to pick,
Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!

—Away went the nice little Cardinal's Niece,—
And the pretty Grisettes,—and the Dons from Spain—
And the Corsair's crew, And the coin-clipping Jew,—
And they scamper'd, like lamplighters, over the plain.—

—Old Nick is a black-looking fellow at best,
Ay, e'en when he's pleased; but never before
Had he look'd so black As on seeing his sack
Thus cut into slits on the Red Sea shore.

206

You may fancy his rage, and his deep despair,
When he saw himself thus befool'd by one
Whom, in anger wild, He profanely styled,
“A stupid, old, snuff-colour'd son of a gun!”

Then his supper—so nice!—that had cost him such pains—
—Such a hard day's work—now “all on the go!”
—'Twas beyond a joke, And enough to provoke
The mildest and best-temper'd Fiend below!

Nick snatch'd up one of those great, big stones,
Found in such numbers on Egypt's plains,
And he hurl'd it straight At the Saint's bald pate,
To knock out “the gruel he call'd his brains.”

Straight at his pate he hurl'd the weight,
The crushing weight of that great, big stone;—
But St. Medard Was remarkably hard,
And solid, about the parietal bone.

And, though the whole weight of that great, big stone,
Came straight on his pate, with a great, big thump,
It fail'd to graze The skin,—or to raise
On the tough epidermis a lump, or bump!—

As the hail bounds off from the pent-house slope,—
As the cannon recoils when it sends its shot,—
As the finger and thumb Of an old woman come
From the kettle she handles, and finds too hot;—

—Or, as you may see, in the Fleet, or the Bench,—
—Many folks do in the course of their lives,—
The well-struck ball Rebound from the wall,
When the Gentlemen jail-birds are playing at “fives:”

All these,—and a thousand fine similes more,—
Such as all have heard of, or seen, or read
Recorded in print, May give you a hint
How the stone bounced off from St. Medard's head!

207

—And it curl'd, and it twirled, and it whirl'd in air,
As this great, big stone at a tangent flew!
—Just missing his crown, It at last came down
Plump upon Nick's Orthopedical shoe!

Oh! what a yell and a screech were there!—
How did he hop, skip, bellow, and roar!
—“Oh dear! oh dear!”— You might hear him here,
Though we're such a way off from the Red Sea shore!

It smash'd his shin, and it smash'd his hoof,
Notwithstanding his stout Orthopedical shoe;
And this is the way That, from that same day,
Old Nick became what the French call Boiteux!

Quakers, and Bakers, Grisettes, and Friars,
And Cardinal's Nieces,—wherever ye be,
St. Medard bless! You can scarcely do less
If you of your corps possess any esprit.—

And, mind and take care, yourselves,—and beware
How you get in Nick's buffalo bag!—if you do
I very much doubt If you'll ever get out,
Now sins are so many, and Saints so few!!