’Tis a day in November--a day of fog-- But the Tringham people are all agog; Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers’ Sons,-- With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,-- As if in pursuit of a rabid dog; But their voices--raised to the highest pitch-- Declare that the game is “a Witch!--a Witch!” Over the Green, and along by The George-- Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge, And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond, Till they come to the whitewash’d cottage beyond, And there at the door they muster and cluster, And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster-- Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster! A noise, indeed, so loud and long, And mix’d with expressions so very strong, That supposing, according to popular fame, “Wise Woman” and Witch to be the same, No hag with a broom would unwisely stop, But up and away through the chimney-top; Whereas, the moment they burst the door, Planted fast on her sanded floor, With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Lo and behold! Dame Eleanor Spearing! Oh! then arises the fearful shout-- Bawl’d and scream’d, and bandied about-- “Seize her!--Drag the old Jezebel out!” While the Beadle--the foremost of all the band, Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand-- And after a pause of doubt and fear, Puts it up to his sharpest ear. “Now silence--silence--one and all!” For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul! But before he rehearses A couple of verses, The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall: For instead of the words so pious and humble, He hears a supernatural grumble. Enough, enough! and more than enough;-- Twenty impatient hands and rough, By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff, Apron, ‘kerchief, gown of stuff-- Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff-- Are clutching the Witch wherever they can, With the spite of Woman and fury of Man; And then--but first they kill her cat, And murder her dog on the very mat-- And crush the infernal Trumpet flat;-- And then they hurry her through the door She never, never will enter more! Away! away! down the dusty lane They pull her, and haul her, with might and main; And happy the hawbuck, Tom or Harry, Dandy, or Sandy, Jerry, or Larry, Who happens to get “a leg to carry!” And happy the foot that can give her a kick, And happy the hand that can find a brick-- And happy the fingers that hold a stick-- Knife to cut, or pin to prick-- And happy the Boy who can lend her a lick;-- Nay, happy the urchin--Charity-bred, Who can shy very nigh to her wicked old head!