I heard this old legend a few days ago—
A legend so quaint
Of Ireland's saint,
That to lighten my time
I have put it in rhyme,
Just to see how it looks with the lines all a-row.
When St Patrick, that worthy dear man, came to see
How the reptiles polluted his darling 'conthree,'
He determined to stamp them, so set out with glee
To hunt them with curses until they should flee
To less favour'd nations over the sea,
Where they might rest their feet,
Safe in some snug retreat,
And have leisure to cool themselves down from their heat,
And make moral reflections on life being sweet.
Well, he made short work with the most of their tribe,
By cajoling, coaxing, and tipping a bribe;
But the serpent, so cunning and sly from the first,
Was a tickler, and puzzled St Patrick the worst;
He was firm as the granite, and wouldn't give in,
Though he shook right before him a purse full of tin.
No, no,
He wouldn't go;
And he swore an oath he might change his skin
If his conscience permitted the tempter to win.
Now, St Patrick was fairly nonpluss'd, nor could tell
What to do with this reptile, so cunning and fell;
At length, to his infinite joy and delight,
He hit on a plan to put matters right;
So he got a box,
And began to coax,
As he open'd the lid with a confident air,
Like a country packman displaying his ware,
And, 'Look here,' cried he, 'what a place to hold
Your delicate form, and no fear of the cold;
Here you'll lie through the night-time as snug as paint;
And I pledge you my faith and my truth as a saint
That as soon as the cock hails the morn with a shout
I'll rise up with the lark and I'll let you out.'
But the serpent was sly,
So he shut one eye,
As he said, with a half-incredulous sigh,
'But really, St Patrick, the box is too small,
And I don't think it ever would hold me at all;
Let me see it again. O, no, I defy it.'
Said St Patrick blandly, 'Just you try it;
And if it won't do,
Why, between us two,
You can creep out again, and no harm will ensue.'
Now the serpent, to prove that St Patrick was wrong
(And saints step aside, or there's no truth in song),
Slipp'd into the box, slowly packing himself
Neat as garments new folded and laid on a shelf,
Till at last, when no more of his bulk could get in,
A foot of his tail was left squirming without,
So he cried, with a grin, 'Patrick, dear, do you doubt?'
But the Saint was his match, and 'Look out for your skin!'
He thunder'd; and down came the lid with a crash;
But his serpentship, seeing no end to the smash,
Drew his tail in as quick as the lightning's flash,
And was box'd at last, safe as miser's cash.
Then St Patrick took up the box, and away
He went to some lake or inland bay,
Whose name the legend forgets to say;
There he flung it in, and it sank like the sword
That Lancelot threw to save that of his lord.
(See Tennyson's poem; 'Morte d'Arthur's' the name.)
More my Muse will not say, as her flights are but tame:
Besides, being anxious to finish this rhyme,
She looks right ahead, as if working on time.
Well, to finish my story. Strange to say,
Whenever you happen to go by that way,
And you pause by that spot where St Patrick gave
That wily old 'varmint' a watery grave,
You can hear him still, if you use your ear,
As he squirms about in a restless fret,
Crying out, through the waters, loud and clear,
'Sure, St Patrick, is it not morning yet?'
MORAL

Now for a moral; and morals are sweet,
If they're dish'd up to you with their number of feet.
When the Devil proposes a nice little treat,
And smiles on you blandly to hide his deceit,
And you feel in your bosom your conscience repeat
Nice maxims you care not about in your heat,
But rely on your wisdom, and think it complete;
If he gets in your head, then farewell to your feet.