1, Adam Street, Adelphi.

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ST. DUNSTAN AND THE DEVIL.

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“And it is for trouth reported, that where this signe dothe appere, there the Evill Spirite entreth not.”—­SERMON ON WITCHES.

“Your wife’s a witch, man; you should nail a horse-shoe on your chamber-door.”—­REDGAUNTLET.

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ST. DUNSTAN AND THE DEVIL.

  In days of yore, when saints were plenty,
  (For each one now, you’d then find twenty,)
      In Glaston’s fruitful vale,
  Saint Dunstan had his dwelling snug,
  Warm as that inmate of a rug,
      Named in no polished tale.

  The holy man, when not employed
  At prayers or meals, to work enjoyed
      With anvil, forge, and sledge. 
  These he provided in his cell,
  With saintly furniture as well;
      So chroniclers allege.

  The peaceful mattock, ploughshare, spade,
  Sickle, and pruning-hook he made,
      Eschewing martial labours. 
  Thus bees will rather honey bring,
  Than hurtfully employ their sting
      In warfare for their neighbours.

  A cheerful saint too, oft would he
  Mellow old Time with minstrelsy,—­
      But such as gave no scandal;
  Than his was never harp more famed;
  For Dunstan was the blacksmith named
      Harmonious by Handel.

  And when with tuneful voice he sang,
  His well-strung harp’s melodious twang
      Accompaniment lending;
  So sweetly wedded were the twain,
  The chords flowed mingled with the strain,
      Mellifluently blending.

  Now ’tis well known mankind’s great foe
  Oft lurks and wanders to and fro,
      In bailiwicks and shires;
  Scattering broad-cast his mischief-seeds,
  Planting the germs of wicked deeds,
  Choking fair shoots with poisonous weeds,
      Till goodness nigh expires.

  Well, so it chanced, this tramping vagrant,
  Intent on villanies most flagrant,
      Ranged by Saint Dunstan’s gate;
  And hearing music so delicious,
  Like hooded snake, his spleen malicious
      Swelled up with envious hate.

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  Thought Nick, I’ll make his harp a fool;
  I’ll push him from his music-stool;
      Then, skulking near the saint,
  The vilest jars Nick loudly sounded,
  Of brayings, neighings, screams compounded;
  How the musician’s ears were wounded,
      Not Hogarth e’en could paint.

  The devil fancied it rare fun. 
  “Well! don’t you like my second, Dun? 
  Two parts sound better sure than one,”
      Said he, with queer grimace: 
  “Come sing away, indeed you shall;
  Strike up a spicy madrigal,
      And hear me do the bass.”