Take a mental photograph then, and there,

Of that imp, with his “fixins” all complete—

The elfish grin, the tangled hair,

The dragon wings and the scaly feet—

And you’ll have a notion of him I mean,

The demon of this, my opening scene.

I might go to Milton, and steal, bit by bit,

A description to suit my Spirit of Cant,

A second-hand suit, but a “shplendid fit,”

As a Jew would assure me—but then I sha’nt.

His work is to preach the humbug which passes

For gospel among the “down-trodden masses;”

And to prate of the “wrongs and indignities,” which

Are heaped on their heads by the “cold-hearted rich.”

This Spirit was busy at work one day,

Amongst a crowd of Bowery boys,

When Charity happened to come that way;

And she stopped to listen—though, sooth to say,

She seldom is fond of clamor and noise.

“Now, pray, Mr. Author, wait just a minute,

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