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by Unknown

And spurns her child aside.

“Rake out the red coals, goodman,

For there the child shall lie,

Till the black witch comes to fetch her,

And both up chimney fly.

“It’s never my own little daughter,

It’s never my own,” she said;

“The witches have stolen my Anna,

And left me an imp instead.

“O, fair and sweet was my baby,