Ah Sir! we knew his worth.

If ever there did live a Saint on earth!

Why Sir he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night : Good man, he knew it was not right

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 All through a winter's night,

From sun-set until morn,

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn,

The Devil spitting fire with might and main
Enough to make St. Michael half afraid,
He splashing holy water till he made
His red hide hiss again,

And the hot vapour fill'd the little cell.

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,

And look at all the delicate things, and cry,
O Belly Belly!

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
He heard unluckily of our intent

To do him a great honour, and you know
He was not covetous of fame below,

And so by stealth one night away he went.

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,

A loss like that would naturally grieve us,

For he'll be made a Saint of to be sure.
Therefore we thought it prudent to secure

His relics while we might,

And so we meant to strangle him one night.

BYONDO.

To LYDIA.

Shall he whose genius never rose
Beyond the humble sphere of prose
Thy praises dare to sing?
And seek without poetic lights
Imagination's airy flights

On Pegasean wing?

Yet she who never bids in vain,
Now bids a love-devoted swain

Attempt the Poet's lay:

What Muse will shed a ray of light,

On one who knows not how to write, 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,
The pencil quits his trembling hand;
And vain was all his art

To catch each winning nameless grace,
And paint the beauties of a face

Engraven on his heart.

J. W. T.