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.