The Humourous Poetry of the English Language

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Like lightning dost thou fly, when called,
And yet no pickpocket's so mauled
As thou, O Prince of Soot!
What thousands, hourly bent on sin,
With supplication call thee in,
To aid them to pursue it;
Yet, when detected, with a lie
Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry,
"The Devil made me do it."
Behold the fortunes that are made,
By men through rouguish tricks in trade,
Yet all to thee are owing--
And though we meet it every day,
The sneaking rascals dare not say,
This is the Devil's doing.
As to thy company, I'm sure,
No man can shun thee on that score;
The very best is thine:
With kings, queens, ministers of state,
Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great,
And many a grave divine.
I'm sorely grieved at times to find,
The very instant thou art kind,
Some people so uncivil,
When aught offends, with face awry,
With base ingratitude to cry,
"I wish it to the Devil."
Hath some poor blockhead got a wife,
To be the torment of his life,
By one eternal yell--
The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds,
I'd give this moment twenty pounds
To see the jade in hell."
Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant,
Thou never company wouldst want