When the clock struck Three,
And the Page on his knee
Said, “An’t please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, On a servi!”
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near
To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed—­then his language!—­Oh dear! 
’Twas awful to see, and ’twas awful to hear! 
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly “On a servi,"
“Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be! 
—­The Devil take them! and the Devil take thee!
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!”

In a terrible fume
He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house—­and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,

And in rush’d a troop
Of strange guests!—­such a group
As had ne’er before darkened the door of the Scroope! 
This looks like De Saye—­yet—­it is not De Saye—­
And this is—­no, ’tis not—­Sir Reginald Braye,
This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey—­
But stay!—­Where on earth did he get those long nails?
Why, they’re claws!—­then Good Gracious!—­they’ve all of them tails!
That can’t be De Vaux—­why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say a beak!—­and he can’t keep it still!—­
Is that Poynings?—­Oh, Gemini! look at his feet!! 
Why, they’re absolute hoofs!—­is it gout or his corns,
That have crumpled them up so?—­by Jingo, he’s horns!
Run! run!—­There’s Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, pere et filz (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford—­they’ve all got them on!
Then their great saucer eyes—­
It’s the Father of lies
And his Imps—­run! run! run!—­they’re all fiends in disguise,
Who’ve partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope’s friends and connections,
And He—­at the top there—­that grim-looking elf—­
Run! run!—­that’s the “muckle-horned Clootie” himself!

And now what a din
Without and within! 
For the courtyard is full of them.—­How they begin
To mop, and to mowe, and to make faces, and grin! 
Cock their tails up together,
Like cows in hot weather,
And butt at each other, all eating and drinking,
The viands and wine disappearing like winking,
And then such a lot
As together had got! 
Master Cabbage, the steward, who’d made a machine
To calculate with, and count noses,—­I ween
The cleverest thing of the kind ever seen,—­
Declared, when he’d made
By the said machine’s aid,
Up, what’s now called the “tottle” of those he surveyed,
There were just—­how he proved it I cannot divine—­
Nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety and nine.
Exclusive of Him
Who, giant in limb,