Then Parson Lunt stepped to the front, And clasped his hands in prayer; And cried, “We thank thee for his dust, His soul in mercy spare.” Then took the pole from Selby’s hand, Who quickly sought the rear, Yet dodged and peeped his best to see If Rand indeed was there. Up rose the heavy burdened hook; “That’s him!” a dozen cried; But when they took a second look It proved a brindled hide! Then impious Brown, the village clown, Turned from that vat aside, And laughed until the tears ran down His cheeks as though he cried. Still round he went, with body bent, His face one endless grin, Because the Parson praised the Lord, Then raised—the heifer’s skin! The tools once more sink as before, To scrape the bottom slow: Another mass—they strike—and pass, It rolls along below! “I have him now!” cried Dennis Howe, The blacksmith’s helping man; While down his face, in rapid race, The perspiration ran. With mighty grip, and backward tip, Stout Dennis manned the pole, Which bent as though ’twould snap and go, And Howe would backwards roll. [Illustration: UP HE COMES.] And woe is me, that tanner man, And woe is me, that maid! And woe is me, that staring group Around that vat, afraid. The hold was good, the pole has stood, And up the hook has drawn The poor discarded Simon Rand, Dead as a pickled prawn! And lo! a great cast-iron weight Fast to one leg was tied; Which, as he rose did oscillate, And swing from side to side. Upon a door his form they bore Back slowly through the town, And still behind them left a trail Where dripped the water down. For every step fresh showers drew Down from that litter bare, From garments soaked quite through and through, From mouth and nose and hair. ’Twere sad to tell of funeral show That in that town was seen; Enough to know that Simon low Lies where the grass is green. Annetta, now, is Mrs. Towle, And servants on her wait; And dogs with uninviting growl Drive beggars from her gate. And Simon’s shop has gone to wreck, No bark is needed now, No more before the greasy door Lie horns of ox or cow! [Illustration: UNPROMISING OUTLOOK.] But on the anniversary Of that distressful night, The superstitious people say— Within it burns a light. And there the tanner may be seen His thin arms shining bare, Bent o’er the bench, as though at work Fast scraping off the hair! Anon, slow rising from his toil A woeful sigh he gives, And gazes long towards the hill, Where false Annetta lives. Then turning round he gives a bound, As when he crushed the hat, And fastening to his leg a weight He leaps into the vat! And with him goes the wondrous light That shed its ghostly ray; And dismal darkness wraps the place Until the dawn of day. [Illustration]