Auld Pendle Hill standest alone
Twyx fortress Clitheroe
& Burnley vale, heart of a tale
The World shall come to know.

She broods deep in the misty North,
So sheer & solemn piled,
Midst hoar & spacious moorland wastes
& woodlands thick & wild.

Wide-scattered all about her rim
Lie villages & farms;
Whose folk, in gales, huddle round tales
Of curses, spells & charms;

Who often muse & mediate
Upon the chimes of life,
As witches do, when slicing thro’
A rabbit with a knife.

This was a world of faerie lore
All in the elfin grots,
Where spirits roam from home-to-home.
Banging their copper pots.

For this is where the Boggart dwells
To feed on living souls,
To pounce & prey on those who stray
Too close to hidden holes.

For Pendle Hill, All Hallows Eve,
Becomes a pagan ground
Of sable-braided torch parade,
Upon that heathen mound.

Friends, if you ever pause to view
That Pennine climbing high;
On Halloween, count to thirteen
& then ye’ll hear a cry

Of women wailing through the night
On broomsticks round the hill,
When ye shall swear up from her lair
Old Demdike cackles still.

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