‘Hush! Dear, Hush!
Your mother has went,
To fly all night
A broomstick, to Gwent.
You must be quiet,
Lips heavy as lead,
Or father will wake
To a broom in his bed.’
‘Hush! Dear child,
She’s painted her nails,
Rubbed in the ointment
Of bats and snails,
Put on a hat that’s
As black as pitch,
And ducked right under
The candlesticks.’
‘Three times three
The cock has crowed,
And spilt its blood at
The old crossroads,
Your mother’s known
As a mighty Dame,
But sports herself
In the Devil’s name.’
‘She flies by night
Where the air is hot,
Over the roofs
And the chimneypots,
Then swoops on down
Like a fiend in a fog,
Down on all fours with
The graveyard dog.’
‘She kisses the goat
Right under its tail,
Then makes her enemies
Fortunes fail,
She blights their crops
And their kine run dry
A thimble pricked
Sees them waste, and die.’
‘And while she dances
Beneath the Moon,
Her husband slumbers
At home, alone;
If once he should wake
With the slightest suspicion,
It’s then that she’ll face
The Inquisition!’
‘The old witch-finder
Will seek her art,
Will strip and search
For the Devil’s Mark,
Will look for a place
Where she feels no pain,
Insert his needles
Again and again!’
‘Then duck her well
In the swimming chair,
She’d better sink
Than survive it there,
For once she floats
And the magic’s known
The stake is waiting
To burn the crone.’
‘To burn her clothes,
Her flesh, her hair,
The crowd will gather
Her screams to hear,
And she will beg them
To end her pains,
Garotte her before
The unholy flames.’
‘So Hush! Dear, Hush!
Your mother has went,
To fly all night
A broomstick, to Gwent.
If you should cry
And bring us disgrace,
They’ll burn you too
In the marketplace.
David Lewis Paget
