Yet none of his friends or his vassals might dare
To fly to the rescue or rush up the stair,
And bring down in safety his curly-wigged Heir!

Well a day! Well a day!
All he can say
Is but just so much trouble and time thrown away;
Not a man can be tempted to join the _mêlée:_
E'en those words cabalistic, "I promise to pay
Fifty pounds on demand," have for once lost their sway,
And there the Knight stands
Wringing his hands
In his agony--when on a sudden, one ray
Of hope darts through his midriff!--His Saint!--
Oh, it's funny
And almost absurd,
That it never occurred!--
"Ay! the Scroope's Patron Saint!--he's the man for my money!
Saint--who is it?--really I'm sadly to blame,--
On my word I'm afraid,--I confess it with shame,--
That I've almost forgot the good Gentleman's name,--
Cut--let me see--Cutbeard?--no--CUTHBERT!--egad!
St. Cuthbert of Bolton!--I'm right--he's the lad!
O holy St. Cuthbert, if forbears of mine--
Of myself I say little--have knelt at your shrine,
And have lashed their bare backs, and--no matter--with twine,
Oh! list to the vow
Which I make to you now,
Only snatch my poor little boy out of the row
Which that Imp's kicking up with his fiendish bow-wow,