Poetry Archives

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!