Raising the winds, she chants aloud bold
her dress be wet, knowing secrets untold
Wise Wife of Keith, miraculous an' strange
But was she wise, or was she deranged
"I knock this rag upon this stane,
to raise the wind in the devil's name,
It shall not lie till I please again."
Her curse be true, direct was her aim
Once before the witch sang this song
The waves had taken Lady Jane now gone
Contrary winds on the sails did blow
Once on land, the Queen's secrets she'd know
King James the Royal Fool blamed
Witches of North Brunswick, shackled in chains
There the witch be, who denied all he claimed
Agnes Sampson, the accused, was her name
Denying the charges of witchcraft till the end
The Devils Mark found, shed still not bend
An' finally, poor Agnes to end her pain
recited secrets where the king and Queen lay
Given gold an' toad in a cellar from He
instructed to bring harm to the king and Queen
Sentenced to death, Agnes did not plea
But that was not the end of Wise Wife of Keith
Within the walls of Holyroodhouse
Screams of Agnes will bring you to rouse
Arms outstretched, she limps towards thee
begging, pleading to escape her misery
About the Creator
H. M. Raven
Freelance artist and lover of writing. Its my goal to write several short stories and poems along with my own illustrations....maybe an art and poetry book! Im still exploring my writer-voice and seeing where it takes me.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis6 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Did it not occur to the fools that if the women were really witches, they could have freed themselves while turning everyone into toad and frogs. I am just amazed at the stupidity of it all.