There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat, Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat! They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes, They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs! Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes, With a whoop and a halloo!--"She swims!--She swims!" They have dragg'd her to land, And every one's hand, Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand, When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black, Snatches up that old harridan just like a sack To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack, Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!-- No one can tell, Though they guess pretty well, Which way that grim rider and old woman go, For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow; And she scream'd so, and cried, We may fairly decide That the old woman did not much relish her ride! MORAL. This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt That truest of adages--"Murder will out!" In vain may the blood-spiller "double" and fly, In vain even witchcraft and sorcery try: Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry! * * * * * One marvel follows another as naturally as one "shoulder of mutton" is said "to drive another down." A little Welsh girl, who sometimes makes her way from the kitchen into the nursery, after listening with intense interest to this tale, immediately started off at score with the sum and substance of what, in due reverence for such authority, I shall call-- PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY. "LOOK AT THE CLOCK!" FYTTE 1. "Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce, As she open'd the door to her husband's knock, Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice, "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock! Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?-- Out all night! Me in a fright; Staggering home as it's just getting light! You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!-- Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!" Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, Her buckles were bright as her milking cans, And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit: To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.