Enough, enough! and more than enough;—­
Twenty impatient hands and rough,
By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff,
Apron, ’kerchief, gown of stuff—­
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,
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!