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Ah Sir! we knew his worth.
Why Sir he always used to wear a shirt
For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt, And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again.
There used to be rare work
With him and the Devil there in yonder cell, For Satan used to maul him like a Turk.
There they would sometimes fight
The Devil spitting fire with might and main
His red hide hiss again,
This was so common that his face became
All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, And then he smelt-Oh Lord ! how he did smell !
Then Sir! to see how he would mortify
The flesh! if any one had dainty fare,
Good man he would come there,
You would be gormandizing now I know.
But it shall not be so, Home to your bread and water--home I tell ye !
But, quoth the Traveller, wherefore did he leave
A flock that knew his saintly worth so well ?
Why, said the Landlord, Sir, it so befell
What was this honour then ? the Traveller cried ;
Why Sir, the host replied, We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us,
And then should strangers have
The good man's grave, ,
For he'll be made a Saint of to be sure.
Therefore we thought it prudent to secure
BYONDO. To LYDIA.
Shall he whose genius never rose
Thy praises dare to sing ?
On Pegasean wing?
Yet she who never bids in vain,
Attempt the Poet's lay :
Or how to disobey.
'Twas thus the admiring artist stood, When fair Campasce's form he view'd, His eyes with
rapture move ; The Maid in nature's first attire, Had fill'd his soul with soft desire,
And every thought was love.
Forgetful of his King's command,
And vain was all his art
Engraven on his heart.
J. W. T.