Iv

They burned a witch in our town, On hangman's hill to-day; And black the ashes drifted down, Ashes black and grey, Not white like those o' martyred folk Whose souls are clean as they.

They burned a witch in our town, Upon a windy hill, For that she made the wells sink down And wrought a young man ill, The smoke rose black against the sky, And hangs before it still.

They burned a witch in our town, And sure they did but right, And yet I would the rain could drown That blackened hill from sight, And some great wind might drive that cloud 'Twixt God and me this night.