Cicely Fox Smith

(1 February 1882 – 8 April 1954 / Lymm, Cheshire)

The Hunting Of The Witch - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

I rose up one bright winter's morning:
My heart was as heavy as lead;
I thought to go mope in the garden,
But I followed the hounds instead.
To hear the halloo in the valley
You'd ha' thought they were hunting a hare,
But as soon as I heard I knew better &mdash
'Twas a weary old witch called Care.

At dusk she lay down by my pillow,
At dawn she was haunting me still:
No bell, book and candle could fright her,
No silver bullet could kill;
But she ran from the voice of the huntsman,
She fled from the twang of the horn,
And the sound of the hounds' merry music
Afar on the windy morn.

By fold and by clough and by moorland
We hunted her all the day long,
And I swear that the countryside over
There was never a hare so strong.
Whoop! tear her! good hounds, now you've got her!
You thought you were hunting a hare;
But I know all the while that you've rid me
Of a weary old witch called Care!


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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 30, 2010



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