hen the clock struck Three,
And the Page on his knee
Said, "An't please you, Sir Guy Le Scroope, _On a servi_!"
And the Knight found the banquet-hall empty and clear,
With nobody near
To partake of his cheer,
He stamped, and he stormed--then his language!--Oh dear!
'Twas awful to see, and 'twas awful to hear!
And he cried to the button-decked Page at his knee,
Who had told him so civilly "_On a servi,"_
"Ten thousand fiends seize them, wherever they be!
--The Devil take _them_! and the Devil take _thee!_
And the DEVIL MAY EAT UP THE DINNER FOR ME!"

In a terrible fume
He bounced out of the room,
He bounced out of the house--and page, footman, and groom
Bounced after their master; for scarce had they heard
Of this left-handed grace the last finishing word,
Ere the horn at the gate of the Barbican tower
Was blown with a loud twenty-trumpeter power,

And in rush'd a troop
Of strange guests!--such a group
As had ne'er before darkened the door of the Scroope!
This looks like De Saye--yet--it is not De Saye--
And this is--no, 'tis not--Sir Reginald Braye,
This has somewhat the favor of Marmaduke Grey--
But stay!--_Where on earth did he get those long nails?_
Why, they're _claws_!--then Good Gracious!--they've all of them _tails!_
That can't be De Vaux--why, his nose is a bill,
Or, I would say a beak!--and he can't keep it still!--
Is that Poynings?--Oh, Gemini! look at his feet!!
Why, they're absolute _hoofs_!--is it gout or his corns,
That have crumpled them up so?--by Jingo, he's _horns!_
Run! run!--There's Fitz-Walter, Fitz-Hugh, and Fitz-John,
And the Mandevilles, _pere et filz_ (father and son),
And Fitz-Osbert, and Ufford--_they've all got them on!_
Then their great saucer eyes--
It's the Father of lies
And his Imps--run! run! run!--they're all fiends in disguise,
Who've partly assumed, with more sombre complexions,
The forms of Sir Guy Le Scroope's friends and connections,
And He--at the top there--that grim-looking elf--
Run! run!--that's the "muckle-horned Clootie" himself!

And no