Digital Tradition Mirror

The Hag

The Hag

If you will be still,
Then tell you I will
Of a fusty old Gill,
That dwells under a Hill:
She is a right Sae,
Well worn with Age,
And a Visage will swage
A stout Man's Courage.

She has a beetle Brow,
Deep Furrows enow,
She's Ey'd like a Sow,
Flat nos'd like a Cow:
She has a Devilish Grin,
Long Hairs on her Chin,
She's nearly a-kin
To the foul fotted Fiend.

Teeth yellow as Box,
Half out with the Pox,
Her Breath sweet as Socks,
Or the Scent of a Fox:
Lips swarthy and Dun,
With a Mouth like a Gun,
And her Twattle does run,
And swift as the Sun.

Hair lousie with Nits,
She stinksn i'th' Arm-pits,
She'll still hauks and spits,
And hems up great Bits:
She has long unpar'd Nails,
Hands cover'd with Scales,
She's still full of Ails,
And to stink never fails.

Her back has a Hill,
You may plant a Wind-mill,
And the Farts of this Gill,
Would the Sails well trill:
I've taken my fill,
Of the fusty old Gill,
Which she took so ill,
That I laid down my Quill.


Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!

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