I have a penitent to confess;
      In an hour I’ll come to see fair play—­
        In truth I cannot return in less. 
    My bet will be won ere the first bright ray
    Heralds the ascension of the day. 
    If I lose!—­there will be the devil to pay!’
    He descended the hill with a firm quick stride,
    Till he reached a cell which stood on the side;
    He knocked at the door, and it opened wide,—­
    He murmured a blessing and walked inside. 
    Before him he saw a tear-stained face
    Of an elderly maiden of elderly grace;
    Who, when she beheld him, turned deadly pale,
    And drew o’er her features a nun’s black veil. 
    ‘Holy father!’ she said, ’I have one sin more,
    Which I should have confessed sixty years before! 
    I have broken my vows—­’tis a terrible crime! 
    I have loved you, oh father, for all that time! 
    My passion I cannot subdue, tho’ I try! 
    Shrive me, oh father! and let me die!’
    ‘Alas, my daughter,’ replied the Saint,
    ’One’s desire is ever to do what one mayn’t,
    There was once a time when I loved you, too,
    I have conquered my passion, and why shouldn’t you? 
      For penance I say,
      You must kneel and pray
    For hours which will number seven;
      Fifty times say the rosary,
      (Fifty, ’twill be a poser, eh?)
    But by it you’ll enter heaven;
      As each hour doth pass,
      Turn the hour glass,
    Till the time of midnight’s near;
      On the stroke of midnight
      This taper light,
    Your conscience will then be clear.’ 
    He left the cell, and he walked until
    He joined Old Nick on the top of the hill. 
    It was five o’clock, and the setting sun
    Showed the work of the Devil already begun. 
    St Cuthman was rather fatigued by his walk,
    And caring but little for brimstone talk,
    He watched the pick crash through layers of chalk. 
    And huge blocks went over and splitting asunder
    Broke o’er the Weald like the crashing of thunder. 
    St Cuthman wished the first hour would pass,
    When St Ursula, praying, reversed the glass. 
    ‘Ye legions of hell!’ the Old Gentleman cried,
    ‘I have such a terrible stitch in the side!’
    ‘Don’t work so hard,’ said the Saint, ’only see,
    The sides of your dyke a heap smoother might be.’ 
    ‘Just so,’ said the Devil, ’I’ve had a sharp fit,
    So, resting, I’ll trim up my crevice a bit.’ 
    St Cuthman was looking prodigiously sly,
    He knew that the hours were slipping by. 
      ’Another attack! 
      I’ve cramp at my back! 
      I’ve needles and pins
      From my hair to my shins! 
      I tremble and quail
      From my horns to my tail! 
    I will not be vanquished, I’ll work, I say,
    This dyke shall be finished