by Graham Claytor (1800s)
(A Ballad)
Come in and shut the door,
And listen, children, while I tell
This tale I heard of yore:
A village smith there once did live—
A man so very queer—
Who worked but little at his trade,
And frolicked half the year.
At early dawn on Monday morn
He got upon his spree,
And all the week he danced and pranced
Like on in merriest glee;
Nor did he stop next Monday morn,
But started out as bad,
And all the week he drank and drank,
Until the man was mad.
And by and by, one day when he
Had cursed and spreed around,
He heard a curious, rustling noise,
And then a stranger sound.
With maddened strength he dashed the cup
In pieces on the floor,
And wildly staggered ‘cross the room,
And opened wide the door.
There stood old Nick, with fiery eyes,
Fresh from that dreadful place
Where man, though dying, never dies,
And torments never cease.
“My ever faithful friend,” quoth Nick.
“On earth thou’st served me well,
But now they service here must end,
I’ve need of thee in hell.”
In pitying tones poor smithy begged
Old Nick would spare him here,
To serve him with his might and main
Just for another year.
Then said Old Nick, “I’ll grant thy boon
If thou wilt now agree
That when the coming year shalt end
To pledge thy soul to me.”
* * * *
And then he charmed the smithy’s chair,
That who’er took a seat
Was subject to the smithy’s will,
And in his power complete.
And o’er his great sledge hammer, too,
He tried his potent skill;
Who took it up ne’er let it down
But by the master’s will.
He flung the smith a bag of coin,
And said, “Go fill the bowl;
Have all the fun thou canst this year,
And next, I’ll have thy soul.”
The blacksmith now, with might and main,
Set in to have his fun;
He had so much he e’en forgot
The year its course had run,
‘Till by and by, one day he heard
A rustling at his door,
And now he knew his time was out—
Old Nick had come once more.
And in he walked without a word,
But smithy hammered long,
And made the sparks fly right and left,
And sang his merriest song.
Up spoke Old Nick; quoth he, “My friend,
I cannot tarry here;
So come with me, I’ve use for thee
Within some other sphere.”
“One moment, sir,” the smith replied,
“But pray you take a seat;
And, when I’ve done this little job,
I’ll follow at they feet.”
Into the chair—the conjured chair!
Old Nick sat down at last;
But when tried to rise again,
The chair it held him fast!
Now smithy cracked his heels and laughed,
And rubbed his horny palm,
And asked Old Nick, in jest, if he
Would join him in a dram.
“Thou canst not move one peg,” quoth the smith,
“I have thee safely here,
Nor will I let thee up, unless
Thou’lt grant me one more year.”
“I’ll grant thee, then, another year,”
Old Nick did make reply,
When up he rose from out the chair
And bade the smithy good-bye.
And swiftly passed that year around
In drunkenness and sin,
And when the appointed time was come
Old Nick walked boldly in.
“I’ll soon be ready,” quoth the smith,
“First, let me mend this wedge;
And would Old Nick be kind enough
To help him with the sledge?”
“O, yes,” cried Nick, “I’ll try my hand,
And strike a lick or so;”
With this he grasped the conjured sledge!
Nor could he let it go!
Again the blacksmith clapped his hands,
O’erjoyed at his own skill;
Once more he had Old Nick all fast
And subject to his will.
“Thou canst not let that hammer go,”
Quoth he, in merriest glee;
“But if thou’lt grant me one more year,
Again thou shalt be free.”
“Then take,” quoth Nick, “another year,
But this shalt be thy last,
For when this year shall run its course
I’ll surely hold thee fast.”
With this he loosed his iron grasp,
And bade the smith farewell,
And walked in sullen silence back
Toward the gates of hell.
Now smithy made the welkin ring
With frolic and with fun,
And month on month he drank his fill
Until the year was done.
Then came Old Nick, all in hot haste,
And eager for his man;
Poor smithy now had no excuse,
So up he jumped and ran.
And as he ran he scramed and howled
And begged most piteously
For one more year, or month, or day,
Of life and liberty.
But Nick soon seized him by the neck,
Then threw him on his back,
And rolled his body in a heap
And stuffed it in his sack.
He tied it up, the thought, secure,
Then took the heavy load,
Across his shoulders flung it’s weight,
And sauntered down the road.
* * * *
Now all this happened, you must know,
Upon a muster day,
When all the neighboring folk turn out
In all their bright array.
Old Nick joined with the gathering throng,
With halt and blind and lame,
On mischief bent—with foul intent
To bag some other game;
And when he reached the muster ground,
He placed his loaded sack
Beneath the table, then sat down
To eat his frugal snack.
And now the smith creeped slyly out
And filled the sack anew;
Then hied he to the forest deep
“Till safe from Devil’s view.
And when Old Nick did eat his fill
He gathered up his load,
And bade the people all good-day
And sauntered down the road.
And when at last he reached his home
His children gathered round;
He ope’d the sack—when lo! Out jumped
A fierce and furious hound.
And grappling with the imps of hell,
He shook them all about,
Until Old Nick ope’d wide the door
And turned the rascal out.
* * * *
Now time rolled on, poor smithy died,
And straight to Heaven’s gate
His spirit fled for entrance there;
The angel cried, “Too late!”
And the adown it winged its way
And tried the gates of hell;
But when Old Nick peeped thro’ the bars,
He knew the blacksmith well.
He shook his head, “O no,” quoth Nick,
“I know thee, sir, of yore;
Go somewhere else to play thy pranks;”
With this he slammed the door.
Shut out from Heaven’s golden streets,
And spurned away from hell,
Poor smithy’s spirit wanders forth
O’er bog and fen and dell.
And when the night is dark and damp
His lantern shoots its ray
From out the bog and fen and dell
To lure us from our way;
And Jack-o’-Lantern it is called
Unto this very day.
Among the Hills, 1886
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