The Prisoner’s Song

When my grandmother once had bewitch’d a poor girl,
The mob would have burnt her quite readily;
But though fiercely the judge his mustachios might twirl,
She refused to confess her crime steadily.

And when in the caldron they held her fast,
She shouted and yell’d like a craven;
But when the black vapour arose, she at last
Flew up in the air as a raven.

My black and feathery grandmother dear,
O visit me soon in this tower!
Quick, fly through the grating, and come to me here,
And bring me some cakes to devour!

My black and feathery grandmother dear,
O prythee protect me from sorrow!
For my aunt will be picking my eyes out, I fear,
When I merrily soar hence to-morrow.