University of Virginia Library

THE DEVIL ON SNEALSDEN-PIKE.

Dark on his raft Napoleon stood,
And, looking towards us o'er the flood,
Vow'd what he would do, if he could;
When on Holemoss, the powers of evil,
Each great, and every little devil
Met, his high deeds to celebrate.
Belzebub sat i' th' midst in state,
And held and wav'd, in sulphury hand,
Thick as my arm, a lighted brand,
O' th' marrow made of heroes brave
As ever won an envied grave,
Who, fearless, fought, but fought in vain,
In Underwalden's battle slain.
And fast the fiery cup went round;
And loud, their long tails lash'd the ground;
And deep the devil his daffy's took,
Till star and planet o'er him shook,
And sometimes three moons, sometimes two,
Danc'd hornpipes to his maudlin view,
Though split and torn appear'd they all,
Like Suffolk cheeses, broke with mall.
And higher still his voice he rais'd
The more he drank, and, winking, prais'd
His pupil's Machiavelian brains
Which, draining Europe's richest veins,
Made freedom's champions fight for chains,
While mercy, pale with horror, fled.
“And come what may,” the devil said,
“Let Boney fall, or higher soar.
“Freedom shall fall, to rise no more.”
Thus did the feast infernal end?
No—powers of goodness us defend!—
For then they drank, on bended knee,
Their hero's health, with three times three;
And, since from heaven those angels fell,
To feed on fiery pangs in hell,
Did ne'er to earth such scene appear,
Did never earth such tumult hear.
But when, with hiss of snaky pinions,
All drunk, they sought their own dominions,
Steeds broke the tether; from the stall
Forth rush'd the ox, o'er hedge and wall;
And—worst of all, and worse than all,—
Old Satan, from the hubbub hieing,
Paus'd on the blast, and from his hand,
Where clouds on Snealsden-Pike are flying,
Dropp'd, with malicious grin, his brand;
When, stumbling o'er the fallen light,
A drunkard (late from Barnesly fair,
And wandering, lost, in murky air)
Stoop'd, took it, and, with mad delight,
Fir'd, on the mountain's side, the heath.
Dark, and more dark, the world beneath
Frown'd, as the flame spread wide and higher,
And Rumour had a tongue of fire.
Distinct in light, black Bretland tower'd;
Holme, from his mist, sublimely lour'd;
Awak'd, grey Dead-Edge shook his brow;
And groaning Don fled, pale, below.
Far hamlets trembled as they gaz'd,
And Fear averr'd the beacon blaz'd;
And loud the Devil laugh'd on the wind,
Wagging his joyful tail behind,
While wrinkled on his rump the skin,
As if each hair had soul within.
Why clos'd grey Will his tavern door?
What asking crowds from all sides pour!
Why clanks so loud the hoof of steed?
Why yon pale horseman's darkling speed?
“Why but because our fleet is stranded,
And, worst that can be, Boney's landed,
And coming, like a—cataract;
And whores are ravish'd, pig-sties sack'd—
And York is burn'd—and Pontefract—
And rolling drums to glory call
The dreadful Locals, one and all?”—
Hail, Crambo! and, Night's muse sublime,
Hail, and endure! and, scorning Time,
Heroes of Rother, live in rhyme!—
And, hey for our town! 'tis a sight
To make a Cæsar die of fright!
And what a strange and mingled sound,
Like fire and water, underground!
It is the hum of hurried feet,
It is the Babel of the street,
Where Rawmarsh bears, and Greasbro witches,
Ask, snuffling, “What ail Tommy's breeches,
Who, puffing, comes, all bones and wind,
Dragging his bum a league behind?”
But pity's muse will best relate
The sorrows of that night of fate.
Love, of the ever ready tear,
Could not but be a mourner here.
Queer tears, and manag'd well, she shed,
By leering Tom, o'er faithful Ned;
Sad tears from pregnant Sukey's eye,
Tears of tried truth and constancy,
Some say, for Jack of Wickersly,
Others, for flame-nos'd Jem o' th' Mill;
And quarts of tears for brawny Bill.
Eyes, never stain'd with woe before,
Now blubber'd cheeks and bosom o'er,
For many a short, and many a tall one;
And soul-drops might be had by th' gallon.