Eclogue V. The Witch.

NATHANIEL.             Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe!             Faith it was just in time, for t'other night             I laid two straws across at Margery's door,             And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me             A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy             Who set his dog at that black cat of hers,             I met him upon crutches, and he told me             'Twas all her evil eye.     FATHER.                  'Tis rare good luck;             I would have gladly given a crown for one             If t'would have done as well. But where did'st find it?     NATHANIEL.             Down on the Common; I was going a-field             And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare;             He had hardly said "good day," before I saw             The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue             To call him back,--it makes no difference, does it.             Because I know whose 'twas?     FATHER.                      Why no, it can't.             The shoe's the same you know, and you 'did find' it.     NATHANIEL.             That mare of his has got a plaguey road             To travel, father, and if he should lame her,             For she is but tender-footed,--     FATHER.                      Aye, indeed--             I should not like to see her limping back             Poor beast! but charity begins at home,             And Nat, there's our own horse in such a way             This morning!     NATHANIEL.                  Why he ha'nt been rid again!             Last night I hung a pebble by the manger             With a hole thro', and every body says             That 'tis a special charm against the hags.     FATHER.             It could not be a proper natural hole then,             Or 'twas not a right pebble,--for I found him             Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb,             And panting so! God knows where he had been             When we were all asleep, thro' bush and brake             Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch             At such a deadly rate!--     NATHANIEL.                  By land and water,             Over the sea perhaps!--I have heard tell             That 'tis some thousand miles, almost 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 of the window! but 'tis worse than all             To 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 unroofed 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, rank in her head,             Just like a corpse, and purs'd 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             Smoak-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!--aye, 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, 'tis good to keep off witchcraft,             And we're afraid of Margery.     CURATE.                  Poor old woman!             What can you fear from her?     FATHER.                  What can we fear?             Who lamed the Miller's boy? who rais'd 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, 'tis hard indeed             To have her very miseries made her crimes!             I met her but last week in that hard frost             That 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! 'tis 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 awful 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.     CURATE.                  So I'll say;             And take my thanks for her's.     ['goes']     FATHER.                      That's a good man             That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit             The 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!