Dame Dowson they pursue,
And from the broad Oak’s canopy,
O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew,
They bear in triumph the Old Dame,
Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name;
“A witch, a witch!” the people cry,
“A witch!” the echoing hills reply:
’Till to her home the Granny came,
Where, to confirm the tale of shame,
Each rising day they went, in throngs,