The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale: "Oh, helpless elf! 'tis the fiend himself To whom thou hast made thy sale!" The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught; He crossed himself amain: "Oh, slave of pelf! 'tis the devil himself To whom thou hast sold thy grain!" "And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away, With the corn which thou hast sold, If thou let him pay o'er one tester more Than thy settled price in gold." The farmer gave vent to a loud lament, The wife to a long outcry; Their relish for pig and ale was flown; The friar alone picked every bone, And drained the flagon dry. The friar was gone: the morning dawn Appeared, and the stranger's wain Come to the hour, with six-horse power, To fetch the purchased grain. The horses were black: on their dewy track Light steam from the ground up-curled; Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke, And their tails like torches whirled. More dark and grim, in face and limb, Seemed the stranger than before, As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain, Drew up to the farmer's door. On the stranger's face was a sly grimace, As he seized the sacks of grain; And, one by one, till left were none, He tossed them on the wain. And slily he leered, as his hand up-reared A purse of costly mould, Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh, Shone forth the glistering gold. The farmer held out his right hand stout, And drew it back with dread; For in fancy he heard each warning word The supping friar had said. His eye was set on the silver net; His thoughts were in fearful strife; When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait Was snatched by his loving wife. And, swift as thought, the stranger caught The farmer his waist around, And at once the twain and the loaded wain Sank through the rifted ground. The gable-end wall of Manor Hall Fell in ruins on the place: That stone-heap old the tale has told To each succeeding race. The wife gave a cry that rent the sky At her goodman's downward flight; But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast To see that all was right. 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman grey, And the gold was good and true; Which made her declare, that "his dealings were fair, To give the devil his due." She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall, From her fond embraces riven: But she won the vows of a younger spouse With the gold which the fiend had given. Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear When you cannot sell your corn; Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh, With hidden tail and horn.