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,

66

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!

Alas! to think how people's creeds

Are contradicted by people's deeds!

But though the wishes that Witches utter
Can play the most diabolical rigs-
Send styes in the eye—and measle the pigs-
Grease horses' heels-and spoil the butter;
Smut and mildew the corn on the stalk-
And turn new milk to water and chalk,-

Blight apples and give the chickens the pip→
And cramp the stomach-and cripple the hip-
And waste the body-and addle the eggs-

And give a baby bandy legs;

Though in common belief a Witch's curse
Involves all these horrible things, and worse→→
As ignorant bumpkins all profess,

No bumpkin makes a poke the less

At the back or ribs of old Eleanor S. !
As if she were only a sack of barley!
Or gives her credit for greater might

Than the Powers of Darkness confer at night
On that other old woman, the parish Charley!

Ay, now's the time for a Witch to call
On her Imps and Sucklings one and all-
Newes, Pyewacket, or Peck in the Crown,
(As Matthew Hopkins has handed them down)
Dick, and Willet, and Sugar-and-Sack,
Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black,

Vinegar Tom, and the rest of the pack-
Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry
To come "with his tail" like the bold Glengarry,
And drive her foes from their savage job

As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob :-
But no such matter is down in the bond;
And spite of her cries that never cease,
But scare the ducks and astonish the geese,
The Dame is dragg'd to the fatal pond!

And now they come to the water's brim-
And in they bundle her- sink or swim;

Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown,
With twenty sticks to hold her down;

Including the help to the self-same end,
Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend.
A Pedlar-Yes!-The same !-the same!
Who sold the Horn to the drowning Dame!
And now is foremost amid the stir,

With a token only reveal'd to her;

A token that makes her shudder and shriek,
And point with her finger, and strive to speak-
But before she can utter the name of the Devil,
Her head is under the water level!

MORAL.

There are folks about town-to name no names-
Who much resemble that deafest of Dames!

And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets,
Circulate many a scandalous word,
And whisper tales they could only have heard

Through some such Diabolical Trumpets!

This is as oncert as

one

AN OPEN QUESTION.

"It is the king's highway, that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions."-BUNYAN.

баш

Butlin jikes at

the saints. I refer t the whole & the pome,

not

the

HAT! shut the gardens! lock the latticed gate!
Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket!
And hang a wooden notice up to state,
"On Sundays no admittance at this wicket!"
The birds, the beasts, and all the reptile race
Denied to friends and visitors till Monday!
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens, so unlike the ones we dub
Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses,-
Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub,-
Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses?
No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head,-

Nor rum-nor gin-not even of a Monday

The Lion is not carved-or gilt—or red,
And does not send out porter of a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The bear denied! the leopard under locks!
As if his spots would give contagious fevers;
The beaver close as hat within its box ;)

So different from other Sunday beavers !
The birds invisible-the gnaw-way rats-
The seal hermetically seal'd till Monday-
The monkey tribe- the family of cats,—
We visit other families on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What is the brute profanity that shocks

The super-sensitively serious feeling?

The kangaroo-is he not orthodox

To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling?
Was strict Sir Andrew, in his sabbath coat,

Struck all a heap to see a Coati Mundi?

Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note
The pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What feature has repulsed the serious set?
What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret?

One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-
But then the beasts are pious on these points,
For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?
Turns fell hyæna of the ghoulish race?

The snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?
Do Irish minds,-(whose theory allows

That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)--

Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows

Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday-

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody fellows, not a few,

Who, turn'd by Nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,

And think when they are dismal they are pious:

Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun

Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday→
Or p'rhaps some animal, no serious one,

Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious fellows found

To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round,

And would not guinea pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult

The feathers in her head-at least till Monday;

Or did the elephant unseemly, bolt

A tract presented to be read on Sunday

C.

But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through monkey tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hiss'd by the Canadian goose?

On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he played extempore as well

As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the keepers of the brutes ferocious-
As soon the tiger might expect to stalk

About the grounds from Saturday till Monday
As any harmless man to take a walk,

If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,

As surely as I am a Christian scion,

I cannot think it is a mortal sin

(Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday(That is, provided that he did not dance) Bruin's no worse than baking on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,

That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous History of bird and beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The dove, the wing'd Columbus of man's haven?