Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all,
But settling some dress or arranging some ball,
But the Devil saw deeper there.

VIII.

A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during prayer,
Sate familiarly, side by side,
Declared, that if the tempter were there,

His presence he would not abide.

Ah! Ah! thought Old Nick, that's a very stale trick, For without the Devil, O! favourite of evil,

In your carriage you would not ride.

IX.

Satan next saw a brainless King,

Whose house was as hot as his own,

Many imps in attendance were there on the wing,
They flapped the pennon and twisted the sting,
Close by the very Throne.

X.

Ah, ha thought Satan, the pasture is good,

My Cattle will here thrive better than others,
They dine on news of human blood,

They sup on the groans of the dying and dead,
And supperless never will go to bed;

Which will make them fat as their brothers.

XI.

Fat as the fiends that feed on blood,

Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain,
Where ruin ploughs her gory way,

When the shoots of earth are nipped in the bud,
Where Hell is the Victor's prey,

Its glory the meed of the slain.

XII.

Fat as the death-birds on Erin's shore,

That glutted themselves in her dearest gore,

And flitted round Castlereagh,

When they snatched the Patriot's heart, that his grasp Had torn from its widow's maniac clasp,

And fled at the dawn of day.

XIII.

Fat as the reptiles of the tomb,
That riot in corruption's spoil,
That fret their little hour in gloom,
And creep, and live the while.

XIV.

Fat as that Prince's maudlin brain,
Which addled by some gilded toy,
Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again
Cries for it, like a humoured boy.

XV.

For he is fat, his waistcoat gay,
When strained upon a levee day,

Scarce meets across his princely paunch,
And pantaloons are like half moons
Upon each brawny haunch.

XVI.

How vast his stock of calf! when plenty
Had filled his empty head and heart,
Enough to satiate foplings twenty,

Could make his pantaloon seams start.

XVII.

The Devil, (who sometimes is called nature,)
For men of power provides thus well,
Whilst every change and every feature,
Their great original can tell.

XVIII.

Satan saw a lawyer, a viper slay,

That crawled up the leg of his table,
It reminded him most marvellously,
Of the story of Cain and Abel.

XIX.

The wealthy yeoman, as he wanders,
His fertile fields among,

And on his thriving cattle ponders,

Counts his sure gains, and hums a song; Thus did the Devil, thro' earth walking, Hum low a hellish song.

XX.

For they thrive well, whose garb of gore,
Is Satan's choicest livery,

And they thrive well, who from the poor,
Have snatched the bread of penury,
And heap the houseless wanderer's store,
On the rank pile of luxury.

XXI.

The Bishops thrive, tho' they are big,
The Lawyers thrive, tho' they are thin;

For every gown, and every wig,

Hides the safe thrift of Hell within.

XXII.

Thus pigs were never counted clean,
Altho' they dine on finest corn;
And cormorants are sin-like lean,
Altho' they eat from night to morn.

XXIII.

Oh why is the Father of Hell in such glee, As he grins from ear to ear?

Why does he doff his clothes joyfully,

As he skips, and prances, and flaps his wing,
As he sidles, leers, and twirls his sting,
And dares, as he is, to appear?

XXIV.

A statesman pass'd-alone to him,

The Devil dare his whole shape uncover,
To show each feature, every limb,
Secure of an unchanging lover.

XXV.

At this known sign, a welcome sight,
The watchful demons sought their King,
And every fiend of the Stygian night,
Was in an instant on the wing.

XXVI.

Pale Loyalty, his guilt steeled brow,
With wreaths of gory laurel crowned:
The hell-hounds, Murder, Want and Woe,
For ever hungering flocked around;

From Spain had Satan sought their food, 'Twas human woe and human blood!

XXVII.

Hark the earthquake's crash I hear, Kings turn pale, and Conquerors start, Ruffians tremble in their fear,

For their Satan doth depart.

XXVIII.

This day fiends give to revelry,
To celebrate their King's return,
And with delight its sire to see,
Hell's adamantine limits burn.

XXIX.

But were the Devil's sight as keen
As Reason's penetrating eye,
His sulphurous Majesty I ween,
Would find but little cause for joy.

XXX.

For the sons of Reason see,

That ere fate consume the Pole, The false Tyrant's cheek shall be, Bloodless as his coward soul.

WHOSE is the love that gleaming through the world.
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?

Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?

HARRIET! on thine:-thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the inspiration of my song;