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.

SHAWN GOW AND THE LITTLE GREY MAN OF

THE FAIRIES.

WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

"This night it is our pleasure to get drunk!

And this our Queen shall be as drunk as we."

"WELL, boys, what is it I'm to give ye?" said my uncle Ned, (addressing a group of neighbours who had assembled round my father's cheerful hearth to discuss the merits of a fresh running of potteen,) knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and extinguishing the remaining embers with the little finger of his right hand. "I suppose, as it's come to my turn, I mustn't be worse nor another."

Ned, achorra! tell us the story of Paudicen Buee, that danced a hate with the good people for a year an' a day without resting," said my pretty cousin Peggy, stopping for an instant the rapid movement of her knitting-needles.

"No!-Unkey Ned, tell all about the grey bull and his seven calves," exclaimed little Shawneen, a curly-headed urchin, scrambling up his knees, and laying his head against his uncle's bosom : "won't 'ee, uncle Ned?" and his full blue eyes were turned coaxingly on his face.

66

Whist, ye little bouchal dhauna!” said my father: "leave Ned to his own fancy; I'll be bail it'll be something pleasant."

"Troth, and maybe it 'ud be nothing to brag of afther all," replied my uncle. "Any how, if I can, I'll rape up an ould story I hard at Syl Rooney's wake, when I was a gossoon; it's about the Clough an far dhloss, as they call the big rock that lies acrass the sthrame below at the stepping-stone: it was wanst, but that's long agone,—in the anshent times of all, stuck up atop of that other great corrig that stands close by, like two of Fian M'Cool's jackstones; but it was balanced on with so much curosity, that, though this child on my knee could turn it as asy as a quern-stone, it never budged an inch, but stud there for many's the long day, playing waidy-buckety with every idler that kem the way."

"Stop, Ned!" said my father, interrupting him; "it's dhry work talking, taste a drop of this, just to wet yer whistle;" and, filling a capacious measure of mountain dew, he handed it to his brother, with, "Come, Ned, honey! skirra dugh na skeal!"

an

"Sweet was your fist, Briney, jewel!" said my uncle, extending his hand for the proffered beverage. "Slaintha chud oghtha! and Peggy, ma cailleenoge, here's t'wards your inclinations, soon suddent!" and, winking knowingly on the blushing object of his jest, he emptied the noggin at a single breath.

"Musha, Ned, ma bouchal! but it 'ud be a thousand murdhers to saddle you, an' you sich an iligant fine draught (draft) intirely," said Bill Connor, the parish wag.

"Troth and you may say that, Bill, avourneen! but that's by reason that I never got a rough-rider upon my back yet, praise be to God!" and he looked full at poor Bill, who was notorious for having a little bantam wife at home, who crowed upon the top-roost. Of course, the gathering laugh which Bill's witticism had engendered, burst with increased momentum on his own head; but my uncle, who sought only the harmless triumph of retorting success

VOL. III.

Y

fully on the licensed jester, relieved his confusion by recommencing his story.

"Well, neighbours, as I said, the Clough an far dhloss stud undisturbed out of the memory of man; for there was an ould saying that it was a haunt of the fairies, and that whoever 'ud meddle or make with it, some meeraugh 'ud be sure to befal either himself or some one belonging to him.

"At any rate, there lived once upon the Long Bog one Jack Reardon, or, as he was called, Shawn Gow, in the regard of his following the accipation of a blacksmith; and it's he that was the wonder of the country all out for strength, for he'd think nothing in life of working two sledge-hammers for the length of a summer's day; and he flogged the divil at pitchin' a bar, lifting weights, and swinging an anvil betune his teeth. But, though he was the bully at such divarsions, he was paiceable as a lamb, and wouldn't milest a fly, let alone a Christian; and it was this made many an upsetting spalpeen, that he didn't value a scraudeen, think he hadn't the rale spunk in him: and it was so by Corney Flaherty, the little waiver, who, having a drop of dhrink in him one day, begun aggravating and gibing Shawn, telling him he was no more nor an overgrown Sly-clob, (for Corney was a great schollard,) and, by gor! he wint on, tat in the long run he riz Shawn's temper so, that he gripped the waiver by the collar, with a hoult like his own vice; but, loth to hurt the dawney crather, that he could have ett out of a face, he only doubled a bar of iron that lay in the forge round his slindher throat, and knotting it iligantly afore, in the nathur of a caravat, he left poor Corney, like a pig with a neck-yoke, to be laughed at by all the boys in the parish; and it wasn't untal he went down upon his bare bended knees to beg his pardon, that Shawn 'ud take off his new-fashioned necklace.

"Well, it happened that Shawn Gow was one evening at the christnin' of a neighbour's child, where there was no scarcity of the best of good ating and dhrinking,-white bread, eggs, and the dint of fat belly bacon, lashins and leavins, with cead mille failthagh. There wasn't any potteen in them times, for the poor ignorant scaubogues in these parts hadn't the knowledge of making it then; but there was plinty of strong meadth and heath beer, and sich as the ould Danes afore Brian Borhoo's time used to dhrink-divil's cure to them! At any rate, what with laughing, and singing, and looking at the other boys dhrinking, bad cess to the one but Shawn got a little onreg'lar,-not much the worse of the liquor to be noticed, only a little hearty-like; and, when all the fun was over, he sot out along with some neighbours as pleasant as larks, dancing, and screeching, and cutting capers along the road, tal they kem to the stepping-stones, when one of the boys, to take a rise out of Shawn, says to him, 'I'll hould you hafe a gallon of the best,' says he, Shawn Gow, that, for all your bragging, you're not the man to pitch the Clough an far dhloss into the strame there.'-' Done! says Shawn, for his blood was up, and he wasn't to be cowed by anything; and, with the help of God, Mike, you'll pay me this liquor, not all as one as the thrate I won off you on the head of lifting Father Doyle, boots, spurs, phwip, and all, into his saddle with one hand.' But when the thieves saw him putting his shoulder to the stone in airnest, and that it was already tottering before his powerful