The Devil, I safely can aver, Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting; Nor is he, as some sages swear, A spirit, neither here nor there,
In nothing — yet in everything. He is — what we are; for sometimes The Devil is a gentleman; At others a bard bartering rhymes
For sack; a statesman spinning crimes; A swindler, living as he can; A thief, who cometh in the night, With whole boots and net pantaloons,
Like some one whom it were not right To mention;— or the luckless wight From whom he steals nine silver spoons. But in this case he did appear
Like a slop-merchant from Wapping, And with smug face, and eye severe, On every side did perk and peer Till he saw Peter dead or napping.
He had on an upper Benjamin ( For he was of the driving schism ) In the which he wrapped his skin From the storm he travelled in,
For fear of rheumatism. He called the ghost out of the corse;— It was exceedingly like Peter,— Only its voice was hollow and hoarse —
It had a queerish look of course — Its dress too was a little neater. The Devil knew not his name and lot; Peter knew not that he was Bell:
Each had an upper stream of thought, Which made all seem as it was not; Fitting itself to all things well. Peter thought he had parents dear,
Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies, In the fens of Lincolnshire; He perhaps had found them there Had he gone and boldly shown his
Solemn phiz in his own village; Where he thought oft when a boy He'd clomb the orchard walls to pillage The produce of his neighbour's tillage,
With marvellous pride and joy. And the Devil thought he had, ‘ Mid the misery and confusion Of an unjust war, just made
A fortune by the gainful trade Of giving soldiers rations bad — The world is full of strange delusion — That he had a mansion planned
In a square like Grosvenor Square, That he was aping fashion, and That he now came to Westmoreland To see what was romantic there.
And all this, though quite ideal,— Ready at a breath to vanish,— Was a state not more unreal Than the peace he could not feel,
Or the care he could not banish. After a little conversation, The Devil told Peter, if he chose, He'd bring him to the world of fashion
By giving him a situation In his own service — and new clothes. And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud, And after waiting some few days
For a new livery — dirty yellow Turned up with black — the wretched fellow Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise.
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