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They talk and prate At such a rate, And think of nought but evil; They fight and brawl, And Wives do mawl, Though all run for the Divel. But at their draugh, They quaff and laugh Amongst their fellow creatures. They swear and tear And never fear Old Nick in his worst features. Who would but say Then, by the way That Woman is distressed, Who must indure An Epicure With whom she'll ne'r be blessed.
Well, he travelled and travelled, till he came in sight of the walls of hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over with the greenish ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little imps popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. "I want to speak to the big divel of all," says Tom: "open the gate."
Fait! did I, plain enough. President. What do you suppose was the distance of this pillar from you, sergeant? Sergeant. About twelve feet, your honour. President. You must have pretty good hearing, then, to hear a man whisper at that distance. Sergeant. The divel better hearing in the world. President How far, now, do you think you could hear a gunshot? Sergeant.
It was all the poor divel of a wolf wanted: he put his tail between his legs, and took to his pumps without looking at man or mortal, and neither sun, moon, or stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again. At dinner every one laughed but the foxy fellow; and sure enough he was laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. "Well, to be sure!" says he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck.
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