St. Dunstan and the Devil

In days of yore, when saints were plenty, (For each one now, you'd then find twenty,) In Glaston's fruitful vale, Saint Dunstan had his dwelling snug, Warm as that inmate of a rug, Named in no polished tale.

The holy man, when not employed At prayers or meals, to work enjoyed With anvil, forge, and sledge. These he provided in his cell, With saintly furniture as well; So chroniclers allege.

The peaceful mattock, ploughshare, spade, Sickle, and pruning-hook he made, Eschewing martial labours. Thus bees will rather honey bring, Than hurtfully employ their sting In warfare for their neighbours.

A cheerful saint too, oft would he Mellow old Time with minstrelsy,— But such as gave no scandal; Than his was never harp more famed; For Dunstan was the blacksmith named Harmonious by Handel.

And when with tuneful voice he sang, His well-strung harp's melodious twang Accompaniment lending; So sweetly wedded were the twain, The chords flowed mingled with the strain, Mellifluently blending.

Now 'tis well known mankind's great foe Oft lurks and wanders to and fro, In bailiwicks and shires; Scattering broad-cast his mischief-seeds, Planting the germs of wicked deeds, Choking fair shoots with poisonous weeds, Till goodness nigh expires.

Well, so it chanced, this tramping vagrant, Intent on villanies most flagrant, Ranged by Saint Dunstan's gate; And hearing music so delicious, Like hooded snake, his spleen malicious Swelled up with envious hate.

Thought Nick, I'll make his harp a fool; I'll push him from his music-stool; Then, skulking near the saint, The vilest jars Nick loudly sounded, Of brayings, neighings, screams compounded; How the musician's ears were wounded, Not Hogarth e'en could paint.

The devil fancied it rare fun. "Well! don't you like my second, Dun? Two parts sound better sure than one," Said he, with queer grimace: "Come sing away, indeed you shall; Strike up a spicy madrigal, And hear me do the bass."

This chaffing Dunstan could not brook, His clenched fist, his crabbed look Betrayed his irritation. 'Twas nuts for Nick's derisive jaw, Who fairly chuckled when he saw The placid saint's vexation.

"Au revoir, friend, adieu till noon; Just now you are rather out of tune, Your visage is too sharp; Your ear perhaps a trifle flat: When I return, 'All round my hat' We'll have upon the harp."

A tale, I know, has gone about, That Dunstan twinged him by the snout With pincers hotly glowing; Levying, by fieri facias tweak, A diabolic screech and squeak, No tender mercy showing.

But antiquarians the most curious Reject that vulgar tale as spurious; His reverence, say they, Instead of giving nose a pull, Resolved on vengeance just and full Upon some future day.

Dunstan the saying called to mind, "The devil through his paw behind Alone shall penal torture find From iron, lead, or steel." Achilles thus had been eternal, Thanks to his baptism infernal, But for his mortal heel.

And so the saint, by wisdom guided, To fix old Clootie's hoof decided With horse-shoe of real metal, And iron nails quite unmistakable; For Dunstan, now become implacable, Resolved Nick's hash to settle.

Satan, of this without forewarning, Worse luck for him! the following morning, With simper sauntered in; Squinted at what the saint was doing, But never smoked the mischief brewing, Putting his foot in't; soon the shoeing Did holy smith begin.

Oh! 'twas worth coin to see him seize That ugly leg, and 'twixt his knees Firmly the pastern grasp. The shoe he tried on, burning hot, His tools all handy he had got, Hammer, and nails, and rasp.

A startled stare the devil lent, Much wondering what St. Dunstan meant This preluding to follow. But the first nail from hammer's stroke Full soon Nick's silent wonder broke, For his shrill scream might then have woke The sleepiest of Sleepy Hollow.

And distant Echo heard the sound Vexing the hills for leagues around, But answer would not render. She may not thus her lips profane: So Shadow, fearful of a stain, Avoids the black offender.

The saint no pity had on Nick, But drove long nails right through the quick; Louder shrieked he, and faster. Dunstan cared not; his bitter grin, Without mistake, showed Father Sin He had found a ruthless master.

And having driven, clenched, and filed, The saint reviewed his work, and smiled With cruel satisfaction; And jeering said, "Pray, ere you go, Dance me the pas seul named 'Jim Crow,' With your most graceful action."

To tell how Horny yelled and cried, And all the artful tricks he tried, To ease his tribulations, Would more than fill a bigger book Than ever author undertook, Since the Book of Lamentations.

His tail's short, quick, convulsive coils Told of more pain than all Job's boils, When Satan brought, with subtle toils, Job's patience to the scratch. For sympathetic tortures spread From hoof to tail, from tail to head: All did the anguish catch.

And yet, though seemed this sharp correction Stereotyped in Satan's recollection, As in his smarting hocks; Not until he the following deed Had signed and sealed, St. Dunstan freed The vagabond from stocks.