[Footnote 255: From a broadside _penes me_, without printer's name.] THE BUTCHER TURNED DEVIL.[256] Come neighbours draw near and listen awhile, I will sing you a song it will cause you to smile, It's concerning Old Nick, he's the father of evil, He has long been well known by the name of the devil. In the village of Empsall, near to Wakefield town, To an old woman through the chimney he came down, If you'd been there to see him, you would have thought it funny, But he frightened the old woman, for he wanted all her money. Says he, "Woman take warning, for now I tell you plain, To-morrow night at twelve o'clock I'll visit you again, One hundred bright sovereigns for me you must prepare, Or else with me then you must go, to a place you may guess where." Then up thro' the chimney he vanished from her sight, And she went to the Wakefield bank as soon as it was light, "You must pay me one hundred pounds," to the bankers she did say. "You ought to give us notice, you can't have it to-day." O then she wept most bitterly and told them her tale, How the devil he would fetch her, or her money without fail, Says the banker, "I will help you, though I beg you will be still, And I'll apprehend the devil and send him to the tread-mill." At Empsall a great thundering noise was heard again that night; The devil down the chimney came with his long horns and a light, Two men that were in readiness seized him in a trice, And they held the devil just as fast, as if he'd been in a vice. Next day great crowds of people went to see the devil there, But they say he changed his shape, and so it did appear, For when he found the old woman safe, so that he could not touch her, He lost his horns and tail, and turned out to be a butcher! The devil often has been blamed when innocent, 'tis true, But now he is caught in the fact, they will give him his due, And since he bears such a bad name, there's no doubt but they will Keep him prisoner, as long as he lives, at Wakefield tread-mill. FOOTNOTE: [Footnote 256: From a broadside _penes me_, printed by J. Harkness, of Preston and Liverpool.] SONG. When I was a wee little totterin bairn, An' had nobbut just gitten short frocks; When to gang I at first was beginnin to lairn, On my brow I gat monie hard knocks: For se waik, an' se silly, an' helpless was I, I was always a tumblin down then, While me mother wald twattle me gently, an' cry, "Honey, Jenny, tak' care o' thysen." But when I grew bigger, an' gat to be strang, 'At I cannily ran all about By mysen, whor I lik'd, then I always mud gang, Without bein' tell'd about ought. When however I com to be sixteen year auld, An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men. My mother wud call o' me in, an' wald scauld, An' cry--"Huzzy! tak' care o' thysen."