Classic Poem

When Liz was bewitched by my old Grandmamma,
“To the flames!” all the villagers shouted;
But for all the ink squandered by limbs of the law,
The thought of confession she scouted.

Yet when to the stake the old lady was brought,
“Murder! mercy!” she cried, like a craven;
And as the black torture began, quick as thought
She flew up in the form of a raven.

“Oh! sweet little black-feathered Grandmother mine
Come visit me here in my dungeon;
Flit quick thro' the bars and bring to me wine,
And plumcake and cheese for my luncheon.

“Oh! sweet little black-feathered Grannie, arise,
And make it your care to-morrow,
That none of your cousins shall pick out my eyes,
When I swing, having ended with sorrow.”