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The Saint, till it fancied that he was deluded
In thinking his wonderful crozier held perpend-
icular threw the snakes into convulsions,
The way it was said he affected expulsions.
"We write with the feelings of deepest regret,"
Said the paper commencing its leader; "but yet
'Tis our duty, though painful indeed to record,
In the most ample manner our means can afford,
That our eminent townsman Phineas O'Grady,
Esquire, while returning last night with his lady
From the Theatre Royal, was savagely set upon
By a serpent which secretly managed to get upon
The seat of the brougham; results most unpleasant
Might have followed, but that in a short time was present
Sub-constable Smith, R.I.C. whose exertion
Caused the terrible monster's immediate desertion.
We are happy however to be in a position
To state that the sufferer's painful condition
Is improved, and no fatal results are expected,
For no dangerous symptoms have yet been detected.
A reward of five shillings we're requested to mention,
Has been offered to-day for the snake's apprehension.
Now, perhaps, for the sake of this rising community
We may be allowed to take this opportunity
Of saying we really think it most scandalous
That this beast is permitted so rudely to handle us;
Where is Mr. Saint Patrick,

That he suffers this bad trick

To be played on the innocent children of Erin ?
Why, soon we shall all be as dead as a herrin'
If he don't interpose sure

His marvellous crozier

That is able to banish all snakes in creation;

So 'tis said, but we think without any foundation."
The saint saw this leader, and said when he read it o'er,
"I'm hanged if I met with such cheek in an editor!
Does he think I'm a fool,

Or an ass, to keep cool

While he writes of a saint? Mr. Editor you'll

Feel the weight of my crozier, my boy, on your shoulder,
Before you, my jewel, have got a month older.

Such a slur to be cast on a narrative's verity!

Faith this would be a thing to hand down to posterity!

I'll show them this night I am able, by Japers,

To stop of a sudden this gentleman's capers.

Kathleen, bring me my boots, my crozier and mitre ;
Not the bluchers, the tops, you know they fit tighter!"
And having thus spoke in a terrible passion,

He put on his top-boots, which then were the fashion,
Slipt a flask in the breast of his new Ulster coat,
And tied a silk handkerchief twice round his throat.
Then he said to his maid, "Don't wait up for me;
I can let myself in as I have the latch-key."


Where the waters so placid and clear of the Shannon,
By banks lily-fringed most gloriously ran on,
The Saint took a walk in the moonlight cold;
For though people said he was now getting old,
He was still strong and hearty

As any stout party,

Of eighty may well be supposed to be.
Withal a jolly old boy was he;

And he walked by that river

Without a shiver,

Though the wind was enough to pierce to his liver;
And never once trembled his manly old heart till
Before him he saw what less strong nerves would startle;
For there lay the serpent, a mighty big fellow,

His skin a bright scarlet with slight streaks of yellow.
This snake was the one which declined to be banished
When all of the others from Erin had vanished;
And there was in the country a general idea,

That he was old Harry himself; there must be a
Considerable doubt before giving admission

To this, as a fact, from that age of tradition.

At the sight the Saint stopped and laid near him a box,
Which he carried in all his professional walks;

Then he put forth his crozier,

Saying quietly, “Oh, cure


You'll catch cold if you lie there, no lungs, sir, could stand

Come, honey, your family duties demand it.

Fie! think of your family; join me in my walk;

Besides, I should like with you half-an-hour's talk."

So great was the power,

Of the Saint that hour,

The serpent arose and said, "Oh, with pleasure;
Where have I the honour of waiting your leisure?”

"Egad, my fine boy, you're mighty polite."


"Faith, sir," said the snake, "it's myself knows what's And due to a gentleman saint, sir, like you;

Yes, always I give to the devil his due.

You're a gentleman saint, not one of the riff-raff.
Oh faith, 'tis well-known here, although you may laugh."
"Shut up!" said the Saint; "you're too civil by half.
Look here what I've brought, though you little deserve it;
It's a real Christmas-box, so, my friend, just preserve it
In memory of me." He uncovered the chest

That stood close beside them; 'twas made of the best
Bog-oak Mr. Goggin, of Grafton-street, had.


Within and without,

Most remarkably stout,

The lock was a Bramah I know beyond doubt.
Oh, indeed!" said the serpent; "but it's really too bad
To take such an elegant present. Oh, no,

I'm mighty obliged to you; but it's no go!



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I am sorry I cannot accept your civility;

But I thank you entirely for all your gentility."

Made up just expressly for you, when I've brought it

“Oh, come now, my darling!" the Saint said; "I bought

Sure you haven't the heart to be half so cruel

As refuse it? oh, no! here get in it, my jewel,

I'd like very much to see how it suits;

It's quite new; see the lock, how finely it shosts," "I never intended

You should be offended,"

Said the snake; "but the fact is I think it's too small."
"I'll be hanged if it is!" said Saint Pat; "not at all!
Begorra, I think you're afraid to get in it,
But try it, at any rate, just for a minute."
Then after a little more gentle persuasion,
When he found quite impossible further evasion,
The serpent slid in, but no art could prevail
On the cunning old brute to take in his tail;
So Pat let down the lid with a terrible clap,
And the new Bramah lock that closed with a snap,
Secured it completely, both firmly and neatly';

But the careful saint bolted it up quite discreetly.

"I'll get out," said the snake. "Pon my soul," said Saint Pat,

"I'll take very good care that you never do that.

I hope the chest fits you exactly, my honey."

Here he shouldered the box, and, when that was done, he

Walked down to the bridge, just beside Killaloe,
And despite the snake swearing,

'Twas a mean trick, declaring

He'd expose it, right into the deep river threw
The chest and the serpent. They sunk to the bottom,
And there they remained till the following autumn,
When a single side was borne by the tide,
Together with part of the lid to Killbride.

But if, as was hinted, this snake was no less
Than a Personage whose nasty name one may guess,
I think we may safely conclude he got out,

Though the means he employed are enveloped in doubt.
Then Saint Patrick went home after doing this job,
And put on his slippers that warmed on the hob,
Having previously changed, very wisely, his socks.
But the rest of my story all ears polite shocks;
For he emptied that jar with the "Old Irish" label,
And was found asleep next morning under the table.

[We may add, the five shillings reward was paid over next day; but all efforts have failed to discover if an action was brought for the paper's iniquities in slandering the Saint, though one learned in antiquities has assured us in print, that to his certain knowledge he accepted the editor's ample apology.]





A VERY quiet and secluded little hamlet is Bolton Percy, even in these days, and at the end of the last century it was even more so. A tiny village-a mere handful of houses, in fact-but rejoicing in a high-sounding name, and lying in the midst of a lovely landscape.

It is true there is nothing majestic or wildly picturesque in the scenery around. Nature here appears in her softest and gentlest mood, and Bolton Percy lies, like a gem, set round with corn fields and meadows.

About the end of the last century there stood, within a mile of Bolton Percy, an ancient red brick mansion, called Harborough Hall, the seat of Squire Fairfax, descended from the famous Fairfax, of Commonwealth renown; and over the large, dusky old pew in the north aisle of the Church at Bolton Percy, in which the Fairfax family worshipped, there was a mural monument in memory of the father of the Parliamentarian General.

Harborough Hall was a quaint old mansion, looking ghost-like in the moonbeams on winter nights, when its many mullioned windows shone out, like so many gleaming eyes, from the dusky red brick walls, and the wind tossed about the bare branches of the giant oaks and elms, till they waved to and fro like the arms of grisly spectres.

When the family were away, and the Hall was shut up, belated pedestrians would quicken their steps if they passed under the shadow of the north wing, though they would cast a scared glance, lured on by a species of horrible fascination, at a broad mullioned window under the roof; the window, in short, of the ghost-rooma chamber which, like some other mansions, Harborough Hall had possessed from time immemorial.

Just now, however, we have nothing to do with the ghost-room, and, besides, the mansion was not closed, but full of gay company from kitchen to garret ; and the time of year was November-the first of the month also-and early in the evening.

The sun had set, but a lurid red light yet lingered in the west,

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