Sir Rupert Murgatroyd

Sir Rupert Murgatroyd
His leisure and his riches
He ruthlessly employed
In persecuting witches
With fear he’d make them quake —
He’d duck them in his lake —
He’d break their bones
With sticks and stones
And burn them at the stake!
This sport he much enjoyed
Did Rupert Murgatroyd —
No sense of shame
Or pity came
To Rupert Murgatroyd!
Once, on the village green
A palsied hag he roasted
And what took place, I ween
Shook his composure boasted;
For, as the torture grim
Seized on each withered limb
The writhing dame
'Mid fire and flame
Yelled forth this curse on him:
«Each lord of Ruddigore
Despite his best endeavour
Shall do one crime, or more
Once, every day, for ever!
This doom he can’t defy
However he may try
For should he stay
His hand, that day
In torture he shall die!»
The prophecy came true:
Each heir who held the title
Had, every day, to do
Some crime of import vital;
Until, with guilt o’erplied
«I'll Sin no more!» he cried
And on the day
He said that say
In agony he died!
And thus, with sinning cloyed
Has died each Murgatroyd
And so shall fall
Both one and all
Each coming Murgatroyd!