 | A collection of plays and poems |  |
194
A LETTER From the Devil to his Son.
My ever dear and fav'rite son,I've heard of late the deeds you've done.
Go on, my boy, keep true to me,
And I'll keep faith, depend, with thee.
For sure, I never yet did know,
In air above, or earth below,
A son so wedded to my will,
So lost to virtue, prone to ill;
So ev'ry way my son and heir,
Or fitter for promotion here.
Know then, that I, of special grace,
Willing to give my boy a place,
Late summon'd up my swarthy crew,
To know what seat best suited you.
All prick'd their ears, except a black,
Who ears had not; he shewed his back.
“No make him overfeer,” says he,
“For dat man, he been killey me;”
His back, his head, his meagre face,
Drew pity from the hellish race;
A murmur ran from shore to shore,
And hell was instant in a roar.
The clamour stay'd, a boy then cried,
“By him begot, by him I died.”
An aged matron crept along,
And feebly thus address'd the throng;
“A child I bore, a child I cherish'd,
“And by that child at last I perish'd.”
Willing to give my boy a place,
Late summon'd up my swarthy crew,
To know what seat best suited you.
All prick'd their ears, except a black,
Who ears had not; he shewed his back.
“No make him overfeer,” says he,
“For dat man, he been killey me;”
His back, his head, his meagre face,
Drew pity from the hellish race;
A murmur ran from shore to shore,
And hell was instant in a roar.
The clamour stay'd, a boy then cried,
“By him begot, by him I died.”
An aged matron crept along,
And feebly thus address'd the throng;
195
“And by that child at last I perish'd.”
Such acts, my son, such deeds as these,
Methought th' infernal crew would please.
But all cried out, “'tis strange to tell,
“There's no place fit for him in hell,
“His acts so far surpass your own,
“They'd give him title to the throne.”
The truth is this, my son, they fear
Lest you should take the Imperial chair;
Should that, say they, be e'er the case,
Hell would be soon an empty space
The croud dismiss'd, a wily peer,
With wicked grin, malicious leer,
Advised to build another hell,
That you alone therein might dwell.
Now, if my son has no objection,Methought th' infernal crew would please.
But all cried out, “'tis strange to tell,
“There's no place fit for him in hell,
“His acts so far surpass your own,
“They'd give him title to the throne.”
The truth is this, my son, they fear
Lest you should take the Imperial chair;
Should that, say they, be e'er the case,
Hell would be soon an empty space
The croud dismiss'd, a wily peer,
With wicked grin, malicious leer,
Advised to build another hell,
That you alone therein might dwell.
It shall be built by his direction;
Nay more, to give you due content,
I'll send you negroes to torment;
An overseer, or two, besides,
To help you cut and flash their hides;
And if I did not know you well,
(Tho' seldom any come to hell)
Some women I might send; but then,
I'm sure you'd whip them back again.
Should an engrosser come this way.
Send me your answer, aye, or nay.—
Your loving Father,
SATAN.
| A collection of plays and poems | |