Of myself I say little—­have knelt at your shrine,
And have lashed their bare backs, and—­no matter—­with twine,
Oh! list to the vow
Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp’s kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,
And his head like a bear, and his tail like a cow! 
Bring him back here in safety!—­perform but this task,
And I’ll give—­Oh!—­I’ll give you whatever you ask!—­
There is not a shrine
In the county shall shine
With a brilliancy half so resplendent as thine,
Or have so many candles, or look half so fine!—­
Haste, holy St. Cuthbert, then,—­hasten in pity!—­”

Conceive his surprise
When a strange voice replies,
“It’s a bargain!—­but, mind, sir, THE BEST SPERMACETI!”—­
Say, whose that voice?—­whose that form by his side,
That old, old, gray man, with his beard long and wide,

In his coarse Palmer’s weeds,
And his cockle and beads?—­
And how did he come?—­did he walk?—­did he ride? 
Oh! none could determine,—­oh! none could decide,—­
The fact is, I don’t believe any one tried;
For while every one stared, with a dignified stride
And without a word more,
He marched on before,
Up a flight of stone steps, and so through the front door,
To the banqueting-hall that was on the first floor,
While the fiendish assembly were making a rare
Little shuttlecock there of the curly-wigged Heir. 
—­I wish, gentle Reader, that you could have seen
The pause that ensued when he stepped in between,
With his resolute air, and his dignified mien,
And said, in a tone most decided though mild,
“Come!  I’ll trouble you just to hand over that child!”

The Demoniac crowd
In an instant seemed cowed;
Not one of the crew volunteered a reply,
All shrunk from the glance of that keen-flashing eye,
Save one horrid Humgruffin, who seemed by his talk,
And the airs he assumed, to be cock of the walk. 
He quailed not before it, but saucily met it,
And as saucily said, “Don’t you wish you may get it?”

My goodness!—­the look that the old Palmer gave! 
And his frown!—­’twas quite dreadful to witness—­“Why, slave! 
You rascal!” quoth he,
“This language to ME! 
At once, Mr. Nicholas! down on your knee,
And hand me that curly-wigged boy!—­I command it—­
Come!—­none of your nonsense!—­you know I won’t stand it.”

Old Nicholas trembled,—­he shook in his shoes,
And seemed half inclined, but afraid, to refuse. 
“Well, Cuthbert,” said he,
“If so it must be,
For you’ve had your own way from the first time I knew ye;—­
Take your curly-wigged brat, and much good may he do ye! 
But I’ll have in exchange”—­here his eye flashed with rage—­
“That chap with the buttons—­he gave me the Page!”