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 _mélée_, 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 occurr'd!-- "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! Oh! holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine-- Of myself I say little,--have knelt at your shrine, And have lash'd 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!"-- [Illustration: THE LAY OF ST. CUTHBERT.] Say, whose that voice?--whose that form by his side, That old, old grey man, with his beard long and wide, In his coarse Palmer's weeds, And his cockle and beads?-- And, how did he come?--did he walk?--did he ride?-- Oh! none could determine,--oh! none could decide,-- The fact is, I don't believe any one tried, For while ev'ry one stared, with a dignified stride, And without a word more, He march'd on before, Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door, To the banqueting-hall, that was on the first floor, While the fiendish assembly were making a rare Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wig'd Heir.-- --I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen The pause that ensued when he stepp'd in between, With his resolute air, and his dignified mien, And said, in a tone most decided, though mild, "Come!--I'll trouble you just to hand over that child!" The Demoniac crowd In an instant seem'd cowed; Not one of the crew volunteer'd a reply, All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye, Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seem'd by his talk, And the airs he assumed, to be Cock of the walk, He quailed not before it, but saucily met it, And as saucily said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"