To Mammon and Belial, and half a score dancers,
Who’d joined with Medusa to get up ‘the Lancers’;
Here’s Lucifer lying blind drunk with Scotch ale,
While Beelzebub’s tying huge knots in his tail. 
There’s Setebos, storming because Mephistopheles
Gave him the lie,
Said he’d “blacken his eye,”
And dashed in his face a whole cup of hot coffee-lees;—­
Ramping and roaring,
Hiccoughing, snoring,
Never was seen such a riot before in
A gentleman’s house, or such profligate reveling
At any soiree—­where they don’t let the Devil in.

Hark! as sure as fate
The clock’s striking Eight! 
(An hour which our ancestors called “getting late,”)
When Nick, who by this time was rather elate,
Rose up and addressed them:—­
“’Tis full time,” he said,
“For all elderly Devils to be in their bed;
For my own part I mean to be jogging, because
I don’t find myself now quite so young as I was;
But, Gentlemen, ere I depart from my post
I must call on you all for one bumper—­the toast
Which I have to propose is,—­OUR EXCELLENT HOST! 
Many thanks for his kind hospitality—­may
We also be able
To see at our table
Himself, and enjoy, in a family way,
His good company down-stairs at no distant day! 
You’d, I’m sure, think me rude
If I did not include,
In the toast my young friend there, the curly-wigged Heir! 
He’s in very good hands, for you’re all well aware
That St. Cuthbert has taken him under his care;
Though I must not say ’bless,’—­
Why, you’ll easily guess,—­
May our curly-wigged Friend’s shadow never be less!”
Nick took off his heel-taps—­bowed—­smiled—–­with an air
Most graciously grim,—­and vacated the chair.

Of course the elite
Rose at once on their feet,
And followed their leader, and beat a retreat: 
When a sky-larking Imp took the President’s seat,
And requesting that each would replenish his cup,
Said, “Where we have dined, my boys, there let us sup!”—­
It was three in the morning before they broke up!!!

* * * * *

I scarcely need say
Sir Guy didn’t delay
To fulfill his vow made to St. Cuthbert, or pay
For the candles he’d promised, or make light as day
The shrine he assured him he’d render so gay. 
In fact, when the votaries came there to pray,
All said there was naught to compare with it—­nay,
For fear that the Abbey
Might think he was shabby,
Four Brethren, thenceforward, two cleric, two lay,
He ordained should take charge of a new-founded chantry,
With six marcs apiece, and some claims on the pantry;
In short, the whole county
Declared, through his bounty,
The Abbey of Bolton exhibited fresh scenes
From any displayed since Sir William de Meschines
And Cecily Roumeli came to this nation
With William the Norman, and laid its foundation.