A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,

A spark of light that shines and sings

“Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

 You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try to call her down this way, “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

You prophet with a pleasant name,

If out of Mary-land you came,

You know the way that thither goes

Where Mary's lovely garden grows:

Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,

And try to call her down this way,

“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

  Tell her to leave her cockle-shells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

Tell her to leave her cockle-shells,

And all her little silver bells

That blossom into melody,

And all her maids less fair than she.

She does not need these pretty things,

For everywhere she comes, she brings

“Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

 The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run— One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, “Witchery—witchery—witchery!”

 Prev. P 32/647 next