[Illustration]


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,