Heavy and harsh the hinges creak,

Though they had been oil'd in the course of the week;
The door opens wide as wide may be,

And there they stand,

That murderous band,

Led by the light of the GLORIOUS HAND,
By one, by two, by three!

They have pass'd through the porch, they have pass'd through the hall, Where the Porter sat snoring against the wall;

The very snore froze
In his very snub nose,

You'd have verily deem'd he had snored his last
When the GLORIOUS HAND by the side of him past!
E'en the little wee mouse, as it ran o'er the mat
At the top of its speed to escape from the cat,
Though half dead with affright,
Paus'd in its flight;

And the cat, that was chasing that little wee thing,
Lay crouch'd as a Statue in act to spring!

And now they are there,

On the head of the stair,

And the long crooked whittle is gleaming and bare!
-I really don't think any money would bribe
Me the horrible scene that ensued to describe,
Or the wild, wild glare

Of that old man's eye,
His dumb despair

And deep agony.

The kid from the pen, and the lamb from the fold,
Uumov'd may the blade of the butcher behold;
They dream not-ah, happier they !—that the knife,
Though uplifted, can menace their innocent life:
It falls; the frail thread of their being is riven,
Yet they dread not, suspect not the blow till 'tis given.
But, oh! what a thing 'tis to see and to know
That the bare knife is rais'd in the hand of the foe,
Without hope to repel or to ward off the blow!
Enough! let's pass over as fast as we can
The fate of that grey, that unhappy old man!

But fancy poor Hugh,

Aghast at the view,

Pow'rless alike to speak or to do!
In vain doth he try

To open the eye

That is shut, or close that which is clapt to the chink,
Though he'd give all the world to be able to wink!
No!-for all that this world can give or refuse,
I would not be now in that little boy's shoes,

Or indeed any garment at all that is Hugh's!
"Tis lucky for him that the chink in the wall

He has peep'd through so long, is so narrow and small!

Wailing voices, sounds of woe

Such as follow departing friends,

That fatal night round Tappington go,

Its long-drawn roofs and its gable-ends ;

Ethereal Spirits, gentle and good,

Aye weep and lament o'er a deed of blood.

'Tis early dawn-the morn is grey,

And the clouds and the tempest have pass'd away,
And all things betoken a very fine day;

But, while the Lark her carol is singing,

Shrieks and screams are through Tappington ringing!
Upstarting all,

Great and Small,

Each one who's found within Tappington Hall,
Gentle or Simple, Squire or Groom,

All seek at once that old Gentleman's room;
And there on the floor,

Drench'd in its gore,

A ghastly corpse lies expos'd to the view,
Carotid and jugular both cut through;
And there by its side,

'Mid the crimson tide,

Kneels a little Foot-page of tenderest years;
Adown his pale cheek the fast-falling tears

Are coursing each other round and big,

And he's staunching the blood with a full-bottom'd wig! Alas! and alack for his staunching! 'tis plain,

As anatomists tell us, that never again

Shall life revisit the foully slain,

When once they've been cut through the jugular vein !

There's a hue and a cry through the County of Kent,
And in chase of the cut-throats a Constable's sent,
But no one can tell the man which way they went.
There's a little Foot-page with that Constable goes,
And a little pug-dog with a little pug nose.

Rushes in, in a rage,

Upsetting the apple-sauce, onions, and sage.
That little Foot-page takes the first by the throat,
And a little pug-dog takes the next by the coat,
And a Constable seizes the one more remote;

And fair rose-nobles, and broad moidores,
The Waiter pulls out of their pockets by scores,
And the Boots and the Chambermaids run in and stare;
And the Constable says, with a dignified air,

"You're wanted, Gen'lemen, one and all,

For that 'ere precious lark at Tappington Hall!" There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor, Where a former black gibbet has frown'd before; It is as black as black may be,

And murderers there

Are dangling in air,

By one, by two, by three!

There's a horrid old Hag in a steeple-crown'd hat,
Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat
A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat.

They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes,
They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs,
Into Tappington mill-dam souse she goes,

With a whoop and a halloo !" She swims!-She swims!"
They have dragg'd her to land,

And every one's hand

Is grasping a faggot, a billet, or brand,
When a queer-looking horseman, drest all in black,
Catches up that old harridan just like a sack

To the crupper behind him, puts spurs to his hack,
Makes a dash through the crowd, and is off in a crack!
No one can tell,

Though they guess pretty well,

Which way that grim rider and old woman go,
For all see he's a sort of infernal Ducrow;
And she scream'd so, and cried,
We may fairly decide

That the old woman did not much relish her ride!

This truest of stories confirms beyond doubt
That truest of adages-" Murder will out!"
In vain may the Blood-spiller "double" and fly,
In vain even witchcraft and sorcery_try :
Although for a time he may 'scape, by-and-by
He'll be sure to be caught by a Hugh and a Cry!

THOMAS INGOLDSBY.

Tappington, Feb. 24.

THE DEVIL.

THE Scene, like the day, was a fair:
The lieges were all in high spirits ;
The puppet-plays, pigs, and the bear,
Were applauded in turn for their merits.
Thimblerig, and a thousand such things,
Occupied the grown-up folks' attention;
Roundabouts pleased the children, and swings;
And all was delight beyond mention.

The only exception to this

Was a mountebank come from a distance;

Dame Fortune to him was remiss,

Not a soul seemed to want his assistance.

“Walk up!” he, in agony, cried;

"I bring you good news from Verona ;

A wonderful wonder 's inside,

The devil in propri' personá!"

His platform was soon filled with folk,

For sixpence a-head they came slap on it ;—

He then drew a purse from his poke,

And showed them there was not a rap in it.

"Tho' you ne'er saw his worship before,

You'll admit, all, that this is the devil!-I-"

"The devil it is!" was the roar,

And they'd treated him rather uncivilly.

To his patron they fain would have sent him,
For their rage was fermenting "like bricks;"

But he bolted, and they 'd to content 'em
By pitching his platform to Styx !

INVIS. GENT.