And the evil odor that round them clings;
   We long for a drink that is cool and nice,
   Great buckets of water with Wenham ice;
   We’ve served you well up-stairs, you know;
   You’re a good old-fellow—­come, let us go!”

   I don’t feel sure of his being good,
   But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,
   As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,
   (He’d been drinking with “roughs” at a Boston bar.)
   So what does he do but up and shout
   To a graybeard turnkey, “Let ’em out!”

   To mind his orders was all he knew;
   The gates swung open, and out they flew. 
   “Where are our broomsticks?” the beldams cried. 
   “Here are your broomsticks,” an imp replied. 
   “They’ve been in—­the place you know—­so long
   They smell of brimstone uncommon strong;
   But they’ve gained by being left alone,
   Just look, and you’ll see how tall they’ve grown.” 
   —­And where is my cat? “a vixen squalled. 
   Yes, where are our cats?” the witches bawled,
   And began to call them all by name: 
   As fast as they called the cats, they came
   There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,
   And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim,
   And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau,
   And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,

   And many another that came at call,
   It would take too long to count them all. 
   All black,—­one could hardly tell which was which,
   But every cat knew his own old witch;
   And she knew hers as hers knew her,
   Ah, did n’t they curl their tails and purr!

   No sooner the withered hags were free
   Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree;
   I could n’t tell all they did in rhymes,
   But the Essex people had dreadful times. 
   The Swampscott fishermen still relate
   How a strange sea-monster stole thair bait;
   How their nets were tangled in loops and knots,
   And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. 
   Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,
   And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. 
   A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,
   It was all the work of those hateful queans! 
   A dreadful panic began at “Pride’s,”
   Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides,
   And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms
   ’Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

   Now when the Boss of the Beldams found
   That without his leave they were ramping round,
   He called,—­they could hear him twenty miles,
   From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;
   The deafest old granny knew his tone
   Without the trick of the telephone. 
   “Come here, you witches!  Come here!” says he,
   —­“At your games of old, without asking me
   I’ll give you a little job to do
   That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!”