Lamentable though the whole affair was, as well for the gross superstition displayed by the participants as for its tragical ending, yet it seems to have aroused no other feelings amongst the inhabitants of Carnmoney and Carrigfergus than those of risibility and derision. A clever racy ballad was made upon it by a resident in the district, which, as it is probably the only poem on the subject of witchcraft in Ireland, we print here in its entirety from the _Ulster Journal of Archæology_ for 1908, though we have not had the courage to attempt a glossary to the "braid Scots." It adds some picturesque details to the more prosaic account of the _News-Letter_. "In Carrick town a wife did dwell Who does pretend to conjure witches. Auld Barbara Goats, or Lucky Bell, Ye'll no lang to come through her clutches. A waeful trick this wife did play On simple Sawney, our poor tailor. She's mittimiss'd the other day To lie in limbo with the jailor. This simple Sawney had a cow, Was aye as sleekit as an otter; It happened for a month or two Aye when they churn'd they got nae butter. Rown-tree tied in the cow's tail, And vervain glean'd about the ditches; These freets and charms did not prevail, They could not banish the auld witches. The neighbour wives a' gathered in In number near about a dozen; Elspie Dough, and Mary Linn, An' Kate M'Cart, the tailor's cousin. Aye they churn'd and aye they swat, Their aprons loos'd, and coost their mutches; But yet nae butter they could get, They blessed the cow but curst the witches. Had Sawney summoned all his wits And sent awa for Huie Mertin, He could have gall'd the witches' guts, An' cur't the kye to Nannie Barton.[56] But he may shew the farmer's wab, An' lang wade through Carnmoney gutters; Alas! it was a sore mis-jab When he employ'd auld Mary Butters. The sorcerest open'd the scene With magic words of her invention, To make the foolish people keen Who did not know her base intention, She drew a circle round the churn, And washed the staff in south-run water,[57] And swore the witches she would burn, But she would have the tailor's butter. When sable Night her curtain spread Then she got on a flaming fire; The tailor stood at the cow's head With his turn'd waistcoat[58] in the byre. The chimney covered with a scraw An' every crevice where it smoak'd, But long before the cock did craw The people in the house were choak'd. The muckle pot hung on all night, As Mary Butters had been brewing In hopes to fetch some witch or wight, Whas entrails by her art were stewing. In this her magic a' did fail; Nae witch nor wizard was detected. Now Mary Butters lies in jail For the base part that she has acted. The tailor lost his son and wife, For Mary Butters did them smother;