Ugly old crone on the outskirts of town Kept to herself in her ramshackle hut Living off of alms Pennies for herbs, potions and poultices Maybe arcane arts fueled her talents But she never harmed a soul Nobody paid much mind to Ol Moll Dyer But then fortunes turned to ash A plague of flu on funeral winds Livestock met the reaper in droves Then one February night Lightning rent snowdriven clouds A heap of empty beer mugs Littered the almshouse tables Tis that old witchs fault, this The storm had finally burst the dam Torches, pitchforks, axes and rope Thered soon be hell to pay Hut went up in a blaze of righteousness Ol Moll fled the flames, into the frozen wood Trudging through the snow, she collapsed upon a stone As the icy grip of death wrapped its fingers round her heart She held one hand aloft, fist raised to the sky in rage Calling up old black magicks that shed learned but never used Miasma of misfortune swept through the cursed town Still Moll Dyers rock holds the image of her frozen, dying hand
moll, dyer, hut, ol, snowdriven