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Over the sea, perhaps !.. I have heard tell 'Tis many thousand miles off at the end

Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil.
They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear
Some ointment over them, and then away
Out at the window! but 't is worse than all

Το worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it
That in a Christian country they should let
Such creatures live!

FATHER.

And when there's such plain proof!

I did but threaten her because she robb'd

Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind
That made me shake to hear it in my bed.

How came it that that storm unroof'd my barn,
And only mine in the parish?.. Look at her,
And that's enough; she has it in her face!..
A pair of large dead eyes, sunk in her head,
Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles round;
A nose and chin that scarce leave room between
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff;
And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven
Croak at my door!.. She sits there, nose and knees,
Smoke-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire,
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes
Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure
It must be one of his imps!.. Ay, nail it hard.

NATHANIEL.

I wish old Margery heard the hammer go !
She'd curse the music!

FATHER.

Here's the Curate coming,

He ought to rid the parish of such vermin!

In the old times they used to hunt them out,
And hang them without mercy; but, Lord bless us!
The world is grown so wicked!

CURATE.

Good day, Farmer!

Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold?

NATHANIEL.

A horse-shoe, Sir; 't is good to keep off witchcraft, And we're afraid of Margery.

CURATE.

What can you fear from her?

Poor old woman!

FATHER.

What can we fear?

Who lamed the Miller's boy? who raised the wind
That blew my old barn's roof down? who d' ye think
Rides my poor horse a' nights ? who mocks the hounds?
But let me catch her at that trick again,

And I've a silver bullet ready for her,
One that shall lame her, double how she will.

NATHANIEL.

What makes her sit there moping by herself.

With no soul near her but that great black cat?
And do but look at her!

CURATE.

Poor wretch; half blind

And crooked with her years, without a child
Or friend in her old age, 't is hard indeed
To have her very miseries made her crimes!
I met her but last week in that hard frost

Which made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd
What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman
Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad
And pick the hedges, just to keep herself

From perishing with cold,.. because no neighbour
Had pity on her age; and then she cried,

And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, And wish'd that she were dead

FATHER.

I wish she was !

She has plagued the parish long enough!

CURATE.

Shame, Farmer!

Is that the charity your Bible teaches?

FATHER.

My Bible does not teach me to love witches.
I know what's charity; who pays his tithes
And poor-rates readier?

CURATE.

Who can better do it?

You've been a prudent and industrious man,

And God has blest your labour.

FATHER.

Why, thank God, Sir

I've had no reason to complain of fortune.

CURATE.

Complain? why you are wealthy! All the parish

Look up to you.

FATHER.

Perhaps, Sir, I could tell

Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.

CURATE.

You can afford a little to the poor;

And then, what's better still, you have the heart

To give from your

abundance.

FATHER.

God forbid

I should want charity!

CURATE.

Oh! 't is a comfort

To think at last of riches well employ'd!

I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth Of a good deed at that most aweful hour

When riches profit not.

Farmer, I'm going

To visit Margery. She is sick, I hear;..

Old, poor and sick! a miserable lot,

And death will be a blessing. You might send her Some little matter something comfortable,

That she may go down easier to the grave,
And bless you when she dies.

FATHER.

What is she going?

Well God forgive her then, if she has dealt
In the black art! I'll tell my dame of it,
And she shall send her something.

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The

That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit
poor in sickness; but he don't believe
In witchcraft, and that is not like a Christian.

NATHANIEL.

And so old Margery's dying!

FATHER.

But

you

know

She may recover: so drive 't other nail in.

Westbury, 1798.

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