And the Devil he made the Fryer afraid, with that he crost his breast; Then up the Devil started, the Fryer was faint-hearted, you may wink and choose the best: For I am the Fryer, and thou art the Lyar, therefore thou art my father; I am a Doctor of Evil, and thou art the Devil, the worser I hold thee rather. A Collier and his Cart came by, which coals he did use to carry. And as soon as the Devil he did him espy, he caused him awhile to tarry: For why, I do think that with thee I must drink, and he called for a glass of claret; Now I find by thy smell, that thou camest from hell, and I fear thou hast stole my chariot. [Illustration] The next that came by was a Chimney Sweeper, with poles, his brooms, and shackles, What meanest thou, Man, the Devil he said, that thou usest all those tackles? I pry thee gentle Blade, tell me thy trade, thy face it is so besmeared, Hadst thou been so black, and no tools at thy back, thou'dst have made me sore afraid. Sir, a Chimney Sweeper I do profess, although my trade's but mean, It is for to sweep all dirty holes, and to keep foul chimneys clean: Then go to Hell, where the Devil doth dwell, and he will give thee a piece, God a mercy, old Dog, when I sheer my hog then thou shalt have the fleece. The next that came by was a tawny Moor, and the Devil bid him see, And he fleered on his tawny skin, crying, Friend, art thou any kin to me? For sure your skin doth resemble our kin, therefore let us walk together, And tell me how you do allow, of this tempestuous weather. Then the next that came by was a Gun-powder man, which coales and brimstone sifted, That in three quarters of a year, himself had hardly shifted: Then up the Devil rose, and snuffed his nose, he could indure it no longer, Cry'd, Away with this fume, 'tis not fit for the room it will neither quench thirst, no, nor hunger. I pre thee, gentle Blade, tell me thy trade, as thou hast so strong a smell, It is for to make gunpowder, he said, for to blow the Devil out of Hell: And if I had him here, his joynts would I tear, he should neither scratch, no, nor bite, I would plague the Devil, for all his evil, and make him leave walking by night. Then a Tinker worse than all the rest, although he was not so black, By chance as he came passing by, with his budget on his back: He cry'd, Yonder is the Devil's tree let us see who dar'st go thither, For it will sustain, from the wind and the rain, or any tempestuous weather. That shall be try'd, the Devil then he cry'd, then up the Devil he did start, Then the Tinker threw his staff about, and he made the Devil to smart: There against a gate, he did break his pate, and both his horns he broke: And ever since that time, I will make up my rhime, it was called _The Devil's Oak_.