What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, Such mischief was made wherever they came, That the parish of Tringham was all in a flame! For although it required such loud discharges, Such peals of thunder as rumbled at Lear, To turn the smallest of table-beer, A little whisper breathed into the ear Will sour a temper “as sour as varges.” In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, That the nearest neighbours the village through, Look’d at each other as yellow and blue, As any electioneering crew Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories. Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, That “whispering tongues can poison Truth,”-- Yea, like a dose of oxalic acid, Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, And rack dear Love with internal fuel, Like arsenic pastry, or what is as cruel, Sugar of lead, that sweetens gruel,-- At least such torments began to ring ’em From the very morn When that mischievous Horn Caught the whisper of tongues in Tringham. The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs, While feuds arose and family quarrels, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fasten’d their nails on each other; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar--and breezes as stiff As ever upset a friendship--or skiff! The plighted lovers, who used to walk, Refused to meet, and declined to talk; And wish’d for _two_ moons to reflect the sun, That they mightn’t look together on one; While wedded affection ran so low, That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo-- And instead of the toddle adown the hill, Hand in hand, As the song has plann’d, Scratch’d her, penniless, out of his will! In short, to describe what came to pass In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of “Love in a Village”--alas! The piece they perform’d was “The Devil to Pay!” However, as secrets are brought to light, And mischief comes home like chickens at night; And rivers are track’d throughout their course, And forgeries traced to their proper source;-- And the sow that ought By the ear is caught,-- And the sin to the sinful door is brought; And the cat at last escapes from the bag-- And the saddle is placed on the proper nag-- And the fog blows off, and the key is found-- And the faulty scent is pick’d out by the hound-- And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground-- And the matter gets wind to waft it about; And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out-- And the riddle is guess’d--and the puzzle is known-- So the truth was sniff’d, and the Trumpet was _blown_! * * * * *