Warren the manufacturer rich Hath a spectral mastiff bitch; To Saint Dunstan’s clock, tho’ silent enow, She barketh her chorus of bow wow, wow: _Bow_ for the quarters, and _wow_ for the hour; Nought cares she for the sun or the shower; But when, like a ghost all-arrayed in its shroud, The wheels of the thunder are muffled in cloud, When the moon, sole chandelier of night, Bathes the blessed earth in light, As wizard to wizard, or witch to witch, Howleth to heaven this mastiff bitch. Buried in thought O’Warren lay, Like a village queen on the birth of May; He listed the tones of Saint Dunstan’s clock, Of the mastiff bitch and the crowing cock; But louder, far louder, he listed a roar, Loud as the billow that booms on the shore; Bang, bang, with a pause between, Rung the weird sound at his door, I ween. Up from his couch he leaped in affright, Oped his grey lattice and looked on the night, Then put on his coat, and with harlequin hop Stood like a phantom in midst of the shop; In midst of his shop he stood like a sprite, Till peering to left and peering to right, Beside his counter, with tail in hand, He saw a spirit of darkness stand; I guess ’twas frightful there to see A lady so scantily clad as she Ugly and old exceedingly. In height her figure was six feet two, In breadth exactly two feet six, One eye as summer skies was blue, The other black as the waves of Styx. Her bloodless lips did aught but pair, For one was brown and one was fair, And clattered like maid in hysteric fit, Or jack that turneth a kitchen spit; Jesu Maria! with awe, I trow, O’Warren beheld this worricow, For dreary and dun the death-hue came O’er her cheek, as she traced the words of flame; The words of flame that with mystic fuss Are hatched from a still-born incubus, And doom each wight who reads, to dwell Till the birth of day in the caves of hell. Oh! read thee not, read thee not, lord of the Strand, The spell that subjects thee to elfin command; Vain hope! the bogle hath marked her hour, And Warren hath read the words of power; Letter by letter he traced the spell, Till the sullen toll of Saint Dunstan’s bell, And the midnight howl of the mastiff bitch, Announced his doom to the Hallowmass witch. Still in her grandeur she stood by, Like an oak that uplooketh to sun and sky; Then shouted to Warren with fitful breath; “I’m old mother Nightmare-life-in-death; Halloo! halloo! we may not stay, Satan is waiting; away, away; Halloo! halloo! we’ve far to go, Then hey for the devil; jee-up! jee-hoe――――” O’Warren requested a little delay, But the evil one muttered “too late, by my fay;” So he put on his breeches and scampered away.