Malefica quaedam auguriatrix in Anglia fuit, quam demones horribiliter extraxerunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt; Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per quatuor ferme miliaria audiebantur. 

Nuremb. Chron. 

On the lone bleak moor, 
At the midnight hour, 
Beneath the Gallows Tree, 
Hand in hand 
The Murderers stand 
By one, by two, by three! 
And the Moon that night 
With a grey, cold light 
Each baleful object tips; 
One half of her form 
Is seen through the storm, 
The other half 's hid in Eclipse! 
And the cold Wind howls, 
And the Thunder growls, 
And the Lightning is broad and bright; 
And altogether 
It 's very bad weather, 
And an unpleasant sort of a night! 
'Now mount who list, 
And close by the wrist 
Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist!-- 
Now climb who dare 
Where he swings in air, 
And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair!' 


There 's an old woman dwells upon Tappington Moor, 
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore, 
And some people fancy a great many more; 
Her nose it is hook'd, 
Her back it is crook'd, 
Her eyes blear and red: 
On the top of her head 
Is a mutch, and on that 
A shocking bad hat, 
Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat! 
Then,-- My Gracious!-- her beard!-- it would sadly perplex 
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex; 
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny could be 
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy. 
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within, 
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin, 
Leering up with that queer, indescribable grin, 
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry, 
'-- Well!-- I never did see such a regular Guy!' 

And now before 
That old Woman's door, 
Where nought that 's good may be, 
Hand in hand 
The Murderers stand 
By one, by two, by three! 

Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view, 
In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew, 
By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame, 
Doing the deed that hath never a name! 
'Tis awful to hear 
Those words of fear! 
The prayer mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer! 
(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when 
A witch says her prayers, she begins with 'Amen.') -- 
--' Tis awful to see 
On that Old Woman's knee 
The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee!-- 

And now, with care, 
The five locks of hair 
From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there, 
With the grease and the fat 
Of a black Tom Cat 
She hastens to mix, 
And to twist into wicks, 
And one on the thumb, and each finger to fix.-- 
(For another receipt the same charm to prepare, 
Consult Mr Ainsworth and Petit Albert.) 

'Now open lock 
To the Dead Man's knock! 
Fly bolt, and bar, and band! 
-- Nor move, nor swerve 
Joint, muscle, or nerve, 
At the spell of the Dead Man's hand! 
Sleep all who sleep!-- Wake all who wake!-- 
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!!' 


All is silent! all is still, 
Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill 
As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill. 
And in Tappington Hall 
Great and Small, 
Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom, 
Each one hath sought his separate room, 
And sleep her dark mantle hath o'er them cast, 
For the midnight hour hath long been past! 

All is darksome in earth and sky, 
Save, from yon casement, narrow and high, 
A quivering beam 
On the tiny stream 
Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam 
By one that is watching wearily. 

Within that casement, narrow and high, 
In his secret lair, where none may spy, 
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care, 
And the thin grey locks of his failing hair 
Have left his little bald pate all bare; 
For his full-bottom'd wig 
Hangs, bushy and big, 
On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair. 
Unbraced are his clothes, 
Ungarter'd his hose, 
His gown is bedizen'd with tulip and rose, 
Flowers of remarkable size and hue, 
Flowers such as Eden never knew; 
-- And there, by many a sparkling heap 
Of the good red gold, 
The tale is told 
What powerful spell avails to keep 
That careworn man from his needful sleep! 

Haply, he deems no eye can see 
As he gloats on his treasure greedily,-- 
The shining store 
Of glittering ore, 
The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore, 
And the broad Double-Joe from beyond the sea,-- 
But there's one that watches as well as he; 
For, wakeful and sly, 
In a closet hard by 
On his truckle bed lieth a little Foot-page, 
A boy who 's uncommonly sharp of his age, 
Like young Master Horner, 
Who erst in a corner 
Sat eating a Christmas pie: 
And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards,