Once, on the village green, A palsied hag he roasted, And what took place, I ween, Shook his composure boasted; For, as the torture grim Seized on each withered limb, The writhing dame `Mid fire and flame Yelled forth this curse on him: "Each lord of Ruddigore, Despite his best endeavour, Shall do one crime, or more, Once, every day, for ever! This doom he can't defy, However he may try, For should he stay His hand, that day In torture he shall die!" The prophecy came true: Each heir who held the title Had, every day, to do Some crime of import vital; Until, with guilt o'erplied, "I'll sin no more!" he cried, And on the day He said that say, In agony he died! CHORUS. And thus, with sinning cloyed, Has died each Murgatroyd, And so shall fall, Both one and all, Each coming Murgatroyd! (Exeunt Chorus of Bridesmaids.) (Enter Rose Maybud from cottage, with small basket on her arm.)