The Devil was in the best humor that day
That ever his highness was in,

And that's why he sent out his imps to play,
And he furnished them torches to light their way,
Nor stinted them incense to burn as they may-
Sulphur, and pitch, and rosin.

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew-
A heterogeneous rout;

There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked black and some looked blue,
And they passed and varied before the view,
And twisted themselves about;
And had they exhibited thus to you,
I think you'd have felt in a bit of a stew-
As I should myself, I doubt.

There were some with feathers and some with scales,
And some had warty skins;

Some had no heads and some had tails,

And some had claws like iron nails;

And some had combs and beaks like birds,

And yet like jays could utter words;

And some had gills and fins.

Some rode on skeleton beasts, arrayed
In gold and velvet stuff,

With rich tiaras on the head,

Like kings and queens among the dead;
While face and bridle-hand displayed,
In hue and substance seemed to cope
With maggots in a microscope,
And their thin lips as white as soap,
Were colder than enough.

And spiders big from the ceiling hung,
From every crook and nook;

They had a crafty, ugly guise,

And they looked at the Saint with their eight eyes; And all that malice could devise.

Of evil to the good and wise,

Seemed welling from their look.

Beetles and slow-worms crawled about,

And toads did squat demure;

From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out,
Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout,

And forty feet, a full span long,

Danced in and out in endless throng;

There ne'er has been such extravagant rout,

From that time to this, I'm sure.

But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes
Fixed on the holy book;

From it they did not sink or rise;
Nor sighs nor laughter, shouts nor cries
Could win away his look.

A quaint imp sat in an earthen pot;

In a big-bellied earthen pot sat he: Through holes in the bottom his legs outshot, And in holes in the sides his arms had got,

And his head came out through the mouth; God wot! A comical sight to see.

And he sat on the edge of a table-desk,

And drummed it with his heels;

And he looked as strange and as picturesque
As the figures we see in arabesque;

Half hidden in flowers, all painted in fresque,
In gothic vaulted cells.

Then he whooped and hawed, and winked and grinned,
And his eyes stood out with glee;

And he said these words, and sung this song,

And his legs and his arms, with their double prong,
Keeping time to his tune as it galloped along,
As birth to his song gave he:

"Old Tony, my boy! shut up your book,
And learn to be merry and gay;

You sit like a bat in his cloistered nook,

Like a round-shouldered fool of an owl you look,-
But straighten your back from its booby crook,
And more sociable be, I pray.

"Let us see you laugh, let us hear you sing;
Take a lesson from us, old boy!
Remember that life has a fleeting wing;
And then comes death, that stern old king,
So we'd better make sure of joy."

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon his holy book.

He heard that song with a laugh arise,
But he knew that the imp had a naughty guise,
And he did not care to look.

Another imp came in a masquerade

Most like to a monk's attire,

But of living bats his cowl was made,

The wings stitched together with spider's thread,

And round and about him they fluttered and played,

And his eyes shot out from their misty shade

Long parallel bars of fire.

And his loose teeth clattered like clanking bones,
When the gibbet tree sways in the blast;
And, with gurgling shakes and stifled groans,
He mocked the good St. Anthony's tones,
As he muttered his prayer full fast.

A rosary of beads was hung by his side,-
Oh, gaunt looking beads were they!
And still when the good Saint dropped a bead,
He dropped a tooth; and he took good heed
To rattle his string, and the bones replied,
Like a rattle-snake's tail at play.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon the holy book;

He heard that mock of groans and sighs,
And he knew that the thing had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

Another imp came with a trumpet snout,
That was mouth and nose in one:

It had stops like a flute, as you never may doubt,
Where his long lean fingers capered about,
As he twanged his nasal melodies out,

In quaver, and shake, and run.

And his head moved forward and backward still,
On his long and snaky neck;

As he bent his energies all to fill

His noisy tube with wind and skill, And he sneezed his octaves out, until 'Twas well-nigh ready to break.

And close to St. Anthony's ear he came,

And piped his music in;

And the shrill sound went through the good Saint's frame
With a smart and a sting, like a shred of flame,
Or a bee in the ear,-which is much the same--

And he shivered with the din.

But the good St. Anthony bent his eyes
Upon the holy book;

He heard that snout with its gimlet cries,
And he knew that the imp had an evil guise,
And he did not dare to look.

A thing with horny eyes was there,

With horny eyes like the dead;

And its long, sharp nose was all of horn,
And its bony cheeks of flesh were shorn,
And its ears were like thin cases torn
From feet of kine, and its jaws were bare,
And fish-bones grew instead of hair,
Upon the skinless head.

Its body was of thin birdy bones,

Bound round with a parchment skin; And when 'twas struck, the hollow tones, That circled round like drum-dull groans, Bespoke a void within.

Its arm was like a peacock's leg,

And the claws were like a bird's;
But the creep that went, like a blast of plague,
To loose the live flesh from the bones,

And to wake the good Saint's inward groans,
As it clawed his cheek, and pulled his hair,
And pressed on his eyes in their beating lair
Cannot be told in words.

But the good St. Anthony kept his eyes
Still on the holy book;

He felt the clam on his brow arise,

And he knew that the thing had a horrid guise
And he did not dare to look.

An imp came then like a skeleton form

Out of the charnel vault;

Some clinging of meat had been left by the worms,
Some tendons and strings on his legs and arms,
And his jaws with gristle were black and deform,
But his teeth were as white as salt.

And he grinned full many a lifeless grin,
And he rattled his bony tail;

His skull was decked with gill and fin,
And a spike of bone was on his chin,
And his bat-like ears were large and thin,
And his eyes were the eyes of a snail.

He took his stand at the good Saint's back
And on tiptoe stood apace;

Forward he bent, all rotten-black,

And he sunk again on his heel, good lack!
And the good Saint uttered some ghostly groans,
For his head was caged in the gaunt rib-bones,

A horrible embrace!

And the skull hung o'er with an elfish pry,

And cocked down its india-rubber eye

To gaze upon his face.

The good St. Anthony sunk his eyes
Deep in the holy book;

He felt the bones, and so was wise

To know that the thing had a ghastly guise,
And he did not care to look.

Last came an imp-how unlike the rest!

A beautiful female form;

And her voice was like music, that sleep oppressed
Sinks on some cradling zephyr's breast;

And whilst with a whisper, his cheek she pressed,
Her cheek felt soft and warm.

When over his shoulder she bent the light
Of her soft eyes on his page,

It came like a moonbeam silver bright,
And relieved him then with mild delight;
For the yellow lamp-lustre scorched his sight,
That was weak with the mists of age.

Hey! the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes
Over the holy book;

Ho, ho! at the corners they 'gan to rise,
For he knew the thing had a lovely guise,
And he could not choose but look.

There are many devils that walk this world,
Devils large, and devils small;

Devils so meagre, and devils so stout;
Devils with horns, and devils without;
Sly devils that go with their tails uncurled,
Bold devils that carry them quite unfurled;
Meek devils, and devils that brawl;

Serious devils and laughing devils;
Imps for churches, and imps for revels;
Devils uncouth and devils polite;

Devils black and devils white;

Devils foolish, and devils wise;-

But a laughing woman, with two bright eyes

Is the very worst devil of all.

-Bentley's Miscellany.