“Come, come,” the saint answered, “you very well know
The young man’s no more his than your own to bestow. 
Touch one button of his if you dare, Nick—–­no! no! 
Cut your stick, sir—­come, mizzle! be off with you! go!”—­
The Devil grew hot—­
“If I do I’ll be shot! 
An you come to that, Cuthbert, I’ll tell you what’s what;
He has asked us to dine here, and go we will not! 
Why, you Skinflint,—­at least
You may leave us the feast! 
Here we’ve come all that way from our brimstone abode,
Ten million good leagues, sir, as ever you strode,
And the deuce of a luncheon we’ve had on the road—­
‘Go!’—­’Mizzle!’ indeed—­Mr. Saint, who are you,
I should like to know?—­’Go!’ I’ll be hanged if I do! 
He invited us all—­we’ve a right here—­it’s known
That a Baron may do what he likes with his own—­
Here, Asmodeus—­a slice of that beef;—­now the mustard!—­
What have you got?—­oh, apple-pie—­try it with custard.”

The Saint made a pause
As uncertain, because
He knew Nick is pretty well “up” in the laws,
And they might be on his side—­and then, he’d such claws! 
On the whole, it was better, he thought, to retire
With the curly-wigged boy he’d picked out of the fire,
And give up the victuals—­to retrace his path,
And to compromise—­(spite of the Member for Bath). 
So to Old Nick’s appeal,
As he turned on his heel,
He replied, “Well, I’ll leave you the mutton and veal,
And the soup a la Reine, and the sauce Bechamel;
As the Scroope did invite you to dinner, I feel
I can’t well turn you out—­’twould be hardly genteel—–­
But be moderate, pray,—­and remember thus much,
Since you’re treated as Gentlemen—­show yourselves such,
And don’t make it late,
But mind and go straight
Home to bed when you’ve finished—­and don’t steal the plate,
Nor wrench off the knocker, or bell from the gate. 
Walk away, like respectable Devils, in peace,
And don’t ‘lark’ with the watch, or annoy the police!”

Having thus said his say,
That Palmer gray
Took up little La Scroope, and walked coolly away,
While the Demons all set up a “Hip! hip! hurrah!”

Then fell, tooth and nail, on the victuals, as they
Had been guests at Guildhall upon Lord Mayor’s day,
All scrambling and scuffling for what was before ’em,
No care for precedence or common decorum. 
Few ate more hearty
Than Madame Astarte,
And Hecate,—­considered the Belles of the party. 
Between them was seated Leviathan, eager
To “do the polite,” and take wine with Belphegor;
Here was Morbleu (a French devil), supping soup-meagre,
And there, munching leeks, Davy Jones of Tredegar
(A Welsh one), who’d left the domains of Ap Morgan
To “follow the sea,”—­and next him Demogorgon,—­
Then Pan with his pipes, and Fauns grinding the organ