ere break of day!’
    ’If you win your bet, ‘twill be fairly earned,’
    Said the Saint, and again was the hour-glass turned. 
    And then with a most unearthly din
    The farther end of the dyke fell in;
    But in spite of an awful rheumatic pain
    The Devil began his work again. 
    ‘I’ll not be vanquished!’ exclaimed the old bloke. 
    ’By breathing torrents of flame and smoke,
    Your dyke,’ said the Saint, ’is hindered each minute,
    What can one expect when the Devil is in it?’
    Then an accident happened, which caused Nick at last
    To rage, fume, and swear; when the fourth hour had passed,
    On his hoof there came rolling a huge mass of quartz. 
      Then quite out of sorts
      The bad tempered old cove
    Sent the huge mass of stone whizzing over to Hove. 
    He worked on again, till a howl and a cry
    Told the Saint one more hour—­the fifth—­had gone by. 
    ‘What’s the row?’ asked the Saint, ’A cramp in the wrist,
    I think for a while I had better desist.’ 
    Having rested a bit he worked at his chasm,
    Till, the hour having passed, he was seized with a spasm. 
      He raged and he cursed,
      ’I bore this at first,
    The rheumatics were awful, but this is the worst.’ 
      With awful rage heated,
      The demon defeated,
    In his passion used words that can’t be repeated. 
      Feeling shaken and queer,
      In spite of his fear,
    At the dyke he worked on until midnight drew near. 
    But when the glass turned for the last time, he found
    That the head of his pick was stuck fast in the ground. 
    ‘Cease now!’ cried St Cuthman, ’vain is your toil! 
    Come forth from the dyke!  Leave your pick in the soil! 
    You agreed to work ’tween sunset and morn,
    And lo! the glimmer of day is born! 
      In vain was your fag,
      And your senseless brag.’ 
    Dizzy and dazed with sulphureous vapour,
    Old Nick was deceived by St Ursula’s taper. 
    ‘The dawn!’ yelled the Devil, ’in vain was my boast,
    That I’d have your soul, for I’ve lost it, I’ve lost!’
    ‘Away!’ cried St Cuthman, ’Foul fiend! away! 
    See yonder approaches the dawn of day! 
    Return to the flames where you were before,
    And molest these peaceful South Downs no more!’
    The old gentleman scowled but dared not stay,
    And the prints of his hoofs remain to this day,
    Where he spread his dark pinions and soared away. 
      At St Ursula’s cell
      Was tolling the bell,
    And St Cuthman in sorrow, stood there by her side. 
      ’Twas over at last,
      Her sorrows were past,
    In the moment of triumph St Ursula died. 
      Tho’ this was the ground,
      There never were found
    The tools of the Devil, his spade and his pick;
      But if you want proof
      Of the Legend, the hoof-
      Marks are still in the hillock last trod by Old Nick.”