Where do you come from, vacant-eyed
hag, and where do you go from here?
Witching your way from border to bay,
who will your mumbling hear?
The babe in the bower is safe for an hour
while you intone your hideous cries;
the man in the wood not even you could
harm with your malevolent eyes.
Scat! with the brat who accompanies that
noise which you wail with spoon on pail.
Sail 'cross the sky on your broom or fly
down the chimney of some dungeon dimly
lit by the flare of gaseous air.
We'll not heed your pitiful creed
nor miss your darkening frown.
Go, Despair! Get out of town!