Well a day! Well a day! All he can say Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away; Not a man can be tempted to join the _mêlée:_ E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay Fifty pounds on demand," have for once lost their sway, And there the Knight stands Wringing his hands In his agony--when on a sudden, one ray Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!-- Oh, it's funny And almost absurd, That it never occurred!-- "Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money! Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,-- On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,-- That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,-- Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no--CUTHBERT!--egad! St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad! O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-- Of myself I say little--have knelt at your shrine, And have lashed their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine, Oh! list to the vow Which I make to you now, Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow, And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! Bring him back here in safety!--perform but this task, And I'll give--Oh!--I'll give you whatever you ask!-- There is not a shrine In the county shall shine With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine, Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!-- Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,--hasten in pity!--" Conceive his surprise When a strange voice replies, "It's a bargain!--but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!"-- Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side, That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide,