The Wise-Woman
In the last low cottage in Blackthorn Lane
The Wise-woman lives alone;
The broken thatch lets in the rain,
The glass is shattered in every pane
With stones the boys have thrown.
For who would not throw stones at a witch?
Take any safe revenge
For the father's lameness, the mother's stitch,
The sheep that died on its back in a ditch,
And the mildewed corn in the grange?
Only be sure to be out of sight
Of the witch's baleful eye!
So the stones, for the most, are thrown at night.
Then a scuffle of feet, a hurry of fright—
How fast those urchins fly!
The witch's garden is run to weeds.
Never a phlox or a rose.
But infamous growths her brewing needs.
Or slimy mosses the rank soil breeds.
Or tares such as no man sows.
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