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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,
From sun-set until morn,
He with a cross, the Devil with his horn,
The Devil spitting fire with might and main
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
And look at all the delicate things, and cry,
You would be gormandizing now I know.
Home to your bread and water-home I tell ye!
But, quoth the Traveller, wherefore did he leave
To do him a great honour, and you know
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.
His relics while we might,
And so we meant to strangle him one night.
Shall he whose genius never rose
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,
Forgetful of his King's command,
To catch each winning nameless grace,
Engraven on his heart.
J. W. T.