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.