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XII.
Faced round like any Bull—
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with heat and fright were stewed,
And not a chick of all this brood
But had his belly full.
XIII.
Old Nicholas, to a tittle!
But all agree, he'd disappear,
Would but the Parson venture near,
And through his teeth,[1] right o'er the steer,
Squirt out some fasting-spittle.
XIV.
The Trojans he could worry—
Our Parson too was swift of feet,
But shew'd it chiefly in retreat:
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,
The mob fled huriy-scurry.
- ↑ According to the superstition of the West-Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or force him to disappear by spitting over his horns.
