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. Το worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it 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 How came it that that storm unroof'd my barn, NATHANIEL. I wish old Margery heard the hammer go ! 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, 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 And I've a silver bullet ready for her, NATHANIEL. What makes her sit there moping by herself. With no soul near her but that great black cat? CURATE. Poor wretch; half blind And crooked with her years, without a child Which made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd From perishing with cold,.. because no neighbour 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. 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, FATHER. What is she going? Well God forgive her then, if she has dealt The That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit NATHANIEL. And so old Margery's dying! FATHER. But you know She may recover: so drive 't other nail in. Westbury, 1798. |