She may not thus her lips profane:
So Shadow, fearful of a stain,
Avoids the black offender.

The saint no pity had on Nick,
But drove long nails right through the quick;
Louder shrieked he, and faster.
Dunstan cared not; his bitter grin,
Without mistake, showed Father Sin
He had found a ruthless master.

And having driven, clenched, and filed,
The saint reviewed his work, and smiled
With cruel satisfaction;
And jeering said, "Pray, ere you go,
Dance me the _pas seul_ named 'Jim Crow,'
With your most graceful action."

To tell how Horny yelled and cried,
And all the artful tricks he tried,
To ease his tribulations,
Would more than fill a bigger book
Than ever author undertook,
Since the Book of Lamentations.

His tail's short, quick, convulsive coils
Told of more pain than all Job's boils,
When Satan brought, with subtle toils,
Job's patience to the scratch.
For sympathetic tortures spread