There's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor, She hath years on her back at the least fourscore, And some people fancy a great many more; Her nose it is hook'd, Her back it is crook'd, Her eyes blear and red: On the top of her head Is a mutch, and on that A shocking bad hat, Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat! Then,--My Gracious!--her beard!--it would sadly perplex A spectator at first to distinguish her sex; Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could he Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy. Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within, With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin, Leering up with that queer indescribable grin, You'd lift up your hands in amazement and cry, "--Well!--I never _did_ see such a regular Guy!" And now before That old Woman's door, Where nought that's good may be, Hand in hand The Murderers stand By one, by two, by three! Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view, In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew, By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame, Doing the deed that hath never a name! 'Tis awful to hear Those words of fear! The pray'r mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer! (Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when A witch says her pray'rs, she begins with "Amen.")-- --'Tis awful to see On that Old Woman's knee The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee!-- And now, with care, The five locks of hair From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there, With the grease and the fat Of a black Tom Cat She hastens to mix, And to twist into wicks, And one on the thumb, and each finger to fix.-- (For another receipt the same charm to prepare, Consult Mr. Ainsworth and _Petit Albert_.) "Now open lock To the Dead Man's knock! Fly bolt, and bar, and band!-- Nor move, nor swerve Joint, muscle, or nerve, At the spell of the Dead Man's hand! Sleep all who sleep!--Wake all who wake!-- But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!!" * * * * * All is silent! all is still, Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill; And in Tappington Hall Great and Small, Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom, Each one hath sought his separate room, And sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast, For the midnight hour hath long been past! All is darksome in earth and sky, Save, from yon casement, narrow and high, A quivering beam On the tiny stream Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam By one that is watching wearily.