And the sin to the sinful door is brought;
And the cat at last escapes from the bag -
And the saddle is placed on the proper nag -
And the fog blows off, and the key is found -
And the faulty scent is picked 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 a riddle is guessed--and the puzzle is known -
So the Truth was sniffed, and the Trumpet was blown!

. . . . .

'Tis a day in November--a day of fog -
But the Tringham people are all agog!
Fathers, Mothers, and Mothers' 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 whitewashed 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 mixed with expressions so very strong,