'Tis a day in November—a day of fog—
But the Tringham people are all agog;
Fathers, Mothers, and Mother's 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,