found--
And the faulty scent is pick'd out by the hound--
And the fact turns up like a worm from the ground--
And the matter gets wind to waft it about;
And a hint goes abroad, and the murder is out--
And the riddle is guess'd--and the puzzle is known--
So the truth was sniff'd, and the Trumpet was _blown_!

* * * * *

'Tis a day in November--a day of fog--
But the Tringham people are all agog;
Fathers, Mothers, and Mother's Sons,--
With sticks, and staves, and swords, and guns,--
As if in pursuit of a rabid dog;
But their voices--raised to the highest pitch--
Declare that the game is "a Witch!--a Witch!"

Over the Green, and along by The George--
Past the Stocks, and the Church, and the Forge,
And round the Pound, and skirting the Pond,
Till they come to the whitewash'd cottage beyond,
And there at the door they muster and cluster,
And thump, and kick, and bellow, and bluster--
Enough to put Old Nick in a fluster!
A noise, indeed, so loud and long,
And mix'd with expressions so very strong,
That supposing, according to popular fame,
"Wise Woman" and Witch to be the same,
No hag with a broom would unwisely stop,
But up and away through the chimney-top;
Whereas, the moment they burst the door,
Planted fast on her sanded floor,
With her Trumpet up to her organ of hearing,
Lo and behold!--Dame Eleanor Spearing!

Oh! then arises the fearful shout--
Bawl'd and scream'd, and bandied about--
"Seize her!--Drag the old Jezebel out!"
While the Beadle--the foremost of all the band,
Snatches the Horn from her trembling hand--
And after a pause of doubt and fear,
Puts it up to his sharpest ear.

"Now silence--silence--one and all!"
For the Clerk is quoting from Holy Paul!
But before he rehearses
A couple of verses,
The Beadle lets the Trumpet fall:
For instead of the words so pious and humble,
He hears a supernatural grumble.

Enough, enough! and more than enough;--
Twenty impatient hands and rough,
By arm, and leg, and neck, and scruff,
Apron, 'kerchief, gown of stuff--
Cap, and pinner, sleeve, and cuff--
Are clutching the Witch wherever they can,
With the spite of Woman and fury of Man;
And then--but first they kill her cat,
And murder her dog on the very mat--
And crush the infernal Trumpet flat;--
And then they hurry her through the door
She never, never will enter more!

Away! away! down the dusty lane
They pull her, and haul her, with might and main;
And