Black,’ says the witch, ‘for a sign and token.’
“ ‘Bold broom, by the witch’s door,
Will you hide my lad as his step steals nigher?
Sleep, witch, on the forest floor;
You are drugged by the broom-flowers’ scented core.
(O the smouldering fumes of its golden fire!)
Burn, broom, in the forest’s gloom,
Glow,’ says the lass, ‘like the heart’s desire.’
“ ‘Wind, wind, round the witch’s lair
There’s a lad and lass that no spell can sever;