"Come, come," the saint answered, "you very well know The young man's no more his than your own to bestow. Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick---no! no! Cut your stick, sir--come, mizzle! be off with you! go!"-- The Devil grew hot-- "If I do I'll be shot! An you come to that, Cuthbert, I'll tell you what's what; He has _asked_ us to _dine here_, and go we will not! Why, you Skinflint,--at least You may leave us the feast! Here we've come all that way from our brimstone abode, Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode, And the deuce of a luncheon we've had on the road-- 'Go!'--'Mizzle!' indeed--Mr. Saint, who are you, I should like to know?--'Go!' I'll be hanged if I do! He invited us all--we've a right here--it's known That a Baron may do what he likes with his own-- Here, Asmodeus--a slice of that beef;--now the mustard!-- What have _you_ got?--oh, apple-pie--try it with custard." The Saint made a pause As uncertain, because He knew Nick is pretty well "up" in the laws, And they _might_ be on _his_ side--and then, he'd such claws! On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire With the curly-wigged boy he'd picked out of the fire, And give up the victuals--to retrace his path, And to compromise--(spite of the Member for Bath). So to Old Nick's appeal, As he turned on his heel, He replied, "Well, I'll leave you the mutton and veal, And the soup _à la Reine_, and the sauce _Bechamel;_ As the Scroope _did_ invite you to dinner, I feel I can't well turn you out--'twould be hardly genteel--- But be moderate, pray,--and remember thus much, Since you're treated as Gentlemen--show yourselves such, And don't make it late, But mind and go straight Home to bed when you've finished--and don't steal the plate, Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate. Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace, And don't 'lark' with the watch, or annoy the police!" Having thus said his say, That Palmer gray Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away, While the Demons all set up a "Hip! hip! hurrah!"