I fain would be a merry guest
At Satan’s banquet with the rest.
Both Choruses.
On broomstick, and on lusty goat,
On pitchfork, and on stick, we float;
And he, to-day who cannot soar,
Is a lost man for evermore.
Half-Witch. [below]
I hobble on behind them all,
The others scarcely hear my call!