The man teetotally wean'd from liquor The Beadle, the Clerk, or the Reverend Vicar- She gather'd such meanings, double or single, With muffins to sell, Her ear was kept in a constant tingle! But this was nought to the tales of shame, Foul, and dirty, and black as ink, That her ancient cronies, with nod and wink, While sitting in conclave, as gossips do, Lapp'd up in "Catty packages," too, To give a zest to the sipping and supping ; For still by some invisible tether, Scandal and Tea are link'd together, As surely as Scarification and Cupping; Turn over new leaves, Without much amending their lives or their tea- Were such wild and horrible anecdotes heard, Women! the wretches! had soil'd and marr'd Whatever to womanly nature belongs; For the marriage tie they had no regard, (Like Madame Laffarge, who with poisonous pinches Kept cutting off her L by inches) And as for drinking, they drank so hard That they drank their flat-irons, pokers, and tongs! The men-they fought and gambled at fairs; And would their own mothers and wives for a button; If all were true that fell from the tongue, But deserved to be whipp'd, imprison'd, or hung, To publish at Colburn's, or Longman's, or Murray's. Meanwhile the Trumpet, con amore, Transmitted each vile diabolical story; And gave the least whisper of slips and falls, Not a murmur of shame, Or buzz of blame, Not a flying report that flew at a name, Suck'd the censorious particle in; And, truth to tell, for as willing an organ As ever listen'd to serpent's hiss, Nor took the viperous sound amiss, On the snaky head of an ancient Gorgon! The Dame, it is true, would mutter "shocking!" And give her head a sorrowful rocking, But still the darker the tale of sin, Who find a comfort in "hearing the worst," What wonder between the Horn and the Dame, For although it required such loud discharges, In fact such very ill blood there grew, From this private circulation of stories, As any electioneering crew Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories. Ah! well the Poet said, in sooth, That "whispering tongues can poison Truth,".. Wrench and convulse poor Peace, the placid, When that mischievous Horn The Social Clubs dissolved in huffs, That discomposed the mechanics of morals, For screws were loose between brother and brother, While sisters fasten'd their nails on each other; Such wrangles, and jangles, and miff, and tiff, And spar, and jar--and breezes as stiff That the oldest John Anderson snubbed his Jo— As the song has plann'd, Scratch'd her, penniless, out of his will! In short, to describe what came to pass In a true, though somewhat theatrical way, Instead of "Love in a Village "— alas! The piece they perform'd was "The Devil to Pay!" However, as secrets are brought to light, And mischief comes home like chickens at night; By the ear is caught,— And the sin to the sinful door is brought; And the fog blows off, and the key is found— And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound- And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out- '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 pitchDeclare that the game is "a Witch !-a Witch!" Over the Green, and along by The George- A noise, indeed, so loud and long, With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing, Oh! then arises the fearful shout Bawl'd and scream'd, and bandied about— "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, |