And black as the crow they denominate Jim,
With a tail like a bull, and a head like a bear,
Stands forth at the window—­and what holds he there,
Which he hugs with such care,
And pokes out in the air,
And grasps as its limbs from each other he’d tear? 
Oh! grief and despair! 
I vow and declare
It’s Le Scroope’s poor, dear, sweet, little, curly-wigged Heir! 
Whom the nurse had forgot and left there in his chair,
Alternately sucking his thumb and his pear.

What words can express
The dismay and distress
Of Sir Guy, when he found what a terrible mess
His cursing and banning had now got him into? 
That words, which to use are a shame and a sin too,
Had thus on their speaker recoiled, and his malison
Placed in the hands of the Devil’s own “pal” his son!—­
He sobbed and he sighed,
And he screamed, and he cried,
And behaved like a man that is mad or in liquor—­he
Tore his peaked beard, and he dashed off his “Vicary,”
Stamped on the jasey
As though he were crazy,
And staggering about just as if he were “hazy,”
Exclaimed, “Fifty pounds!” (a large sum in those times)
“To the person, whoever he may be, that climbs
To that window above there, en ogive, and painted,
And brings down my curly-wi’—­” Here Sir Guy fainted!

With many a moan,
And many a groan,
What with tweaks of the nose, and some eau de Cologne,
He revived,—­Reason once more remounted her throne,
Or rather the instinct of Nature—­’twere treason
To her, in the Scroope’s case, perhaps, to say Reason—­
But what saw he then—­Oh! my goodness! a sight
Enough to have banished his reason outright!—­
In that broad banquet-hall
The fiends one and all
Regardless of shriek, and of squeak, and of squall,
From one to another were tossing that small
Pretty, curly-wigged boy, as if playing at ball;

Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir!

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 melee:
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 occurred!—­
“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! 
O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine—­