“Ah, ha!” said the Devil.  “You scorn the wine! 
    Thrice shall you sin, I say,
To win me a crown from a friend of mine,
    Ere three o’ the clock this day. 
Are you calling to mind some lady fair? 
And is she a wife or a maiden rare? 
    ’Twere folly to shackle young love, hot Youth;
    And stolen kisses are sweet, forsooth!”

“Begone, foul Devil!” I made reply;
    “For never in all my life
Have I looked on a woman with lustful eye,
    Be she maid, or widow, or wife. 
But my brothers!  Alas!  I am scandalized
By their evil passions so ill disguised. 
    And I name no names, but my thanks I give
    That I loathe the lives my fellow-men live.”

“Ho, ho!” roared the Devil in fiendish glee. 
    “’Tis a silver crown I win! 
Thrice have you fallen! 0 Pharisee,
    You have sinned your darling sin!”
“But, nay,” said I; “and I scorn your lure. 
I have sinned no sin, and my heart is pure. 
    Come, show me a sign of the sin you see!”
    But the Devil was gone . . . and the clock struck three.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

With an increase of cheering and waving of hats-
While the little boys squealed, and made noises like cats—­
   The Glugs gave approval to Sym’s second rhyme. 
   And some said ’twas thoughtful, and some said ’twas prime;
And some said ’twas witty, and had a fine end: 
More especially those who did not comprehend.

And some said with leers and with nudges and shrugs
That, they mentioned no names, but it hit certain Glugs. 
   And others remarked, with superior smiles,
   While dividing the metrical feet into miles,
That the thing seemed quite simple, without any doubt,
But the anagrams in it would need thinking out.

But the Mayor said, Hush!  And he wished to explain
That in leading this Movement he’d nothing to gain. 
   He was ready to lead, since they trusted him so;
   And, wherever he led he was sure Glugs would go. 
And he thanked them again, and craved peace for a time,
While this gifted young man read his third and last rhyme.

The last rhyme of sym

(To sing you a song and a sensible song is a worthy and excellent thing;
But how could I sing you that sort of a song, if there’s never a song to sing?)
At ten to the tick, by the kitchen clock, I marked him blundering by,
With his eyes astare, and his rumpled hair, and his hat cocked over his eye. 
Blind, in his pride, to his shoes untied, he went with a swift jig-jog,
Off on the quest, with a strange unrest, hunting the Feasible Dog. 
And this is the song, as he dashed along, that he sang with a swaggering swing—­
(Now how had I heard him singing a song if he hadn’t a song to sing?)

“I’ve found the authentic, identical beast! 
The Feasible Dog, and the terror of Gosh! 
I know by the prowl of him. 
Hark to the growl of him! 
Heralding death to the subjects of Splosh. 
Oh, look at him glaring and staring, by thunder! 
Now each for himself, and the weakest goes under!