In the village past her grave,
The people think of what she gave,
In our land of barren shore,
We will see her nevermore,
Thoughts of shame for our mistake,
For it was never ours to take,
What we thought was our's to break,
A wretched burning at the stake,
Her mother's sorrow we must bear,
We think of what she had to share,
Our hearts heavy with regret,
Now there's no way to forget,
She was clever, strong, and kind,
Gifted with a genius mind,
Which we took as reasons to believe,
That she had motives to decieve,
With her grave now daily blessed,
Chains 'round her casket to give her rest,
Now we're subjected to this curse,
Since the day she left the hearse,
Now our children wake in screams,
Seeing the witch inside their dreams,
And when the crops began to die,
The casket nails the priest did pry,
Though we were sure that she had died,
There was nothing found inside,
In our land of barren shore,
The ghost remains part of our lore,
Three hundred years and still we pray,
To repent the action of that day,
Still her presence here is know,
The girl with "witch" carved on her stone...