THE witch, the witch that lives in the wood
Is not very pretty and not very good ;
Her face is brown and her eyes are black,
A fierce old ****-cat sits on her back
With a sharp thin tail sticking up like a

spire,

While her mistress crouches over the fire,
Be the day cold or be the day hot,
Watching her strange little bubbling pot.

The gobliny dwarf that lives on the hill

He lies in the heather so still, so still.

But on big dark nights when there isn't a

moon

He puts on his cloak and his dancing shoon
And runs along like a soft shy mouse
Till he comes to the door of the witch's house.
' Ho ! ' he cries, ' it is junketing weather ' ;
And off they go on the spree together.

Off they go on the tail of the wind :
The great black ****-cat sails behind.
Haven't you heard them banging about ?
Haven't you heard them whistle and shout ?
Haven't you seen them now and again
Peering in at the window-pane ?
Oh, but I tell you it's better to hide
When the witch and the goblin are out for a
ride.