The Witching of Ambrose Crudd

A Poem by David Lewis Paget

Ambrose Crudd was a little man

Blessed with an evil mind,

He’d roam the backstreet alleys to seek

Such gossip as he could find,

He’d peer through villagers window panes

Under the cloak of night,

Then tell his secrets to Widow Staines

To set off a stream of spite.

The villagers lived in terror there

In the village of Quaking Vale,

The men would sit in the pub at night

Sipping their pale brown ale.

‘Have you heard the gossip on Mrs. Hale,

She washes her clothes in mud!’

‘Oh yes, and Harriet Steele’s a male,

According to Ambrose Crudd!’

They’d laugh, but none of the women did,

Their friends were frightened and few,

For each of them sat there wondering

If all this gossip was true.

They’d look away in the marketplace

And they’d cut each other dead,

They didn’t want to be seen with those

Because Ambrose Crudd had said…

The girl at the Manse was fair of face,

An adopted girl, for sure,

The vicar found her out in a basket

Outside the old Manse door,

He’d named the little girl Isobel

And had brought her up as his own,

She was pure delight in the vicar’s sight,

More beautiful as she’d grown.

Her hair was black as a raven as

It floated wide in the breeze,

Her eyes were pools of enchantment, and

They said that she was a tease.

She wouldn’t look twice at the village lads,

But said she loved to be free,

She’d roam the woods, sing to the birds

And hug her favourite tree.

Ambrose Crudd had followed her there

To spy on the girl’s concerns,

He hid himself in the undergrowth,

Behind the trees and the ferns,

‘There’s something wrong with that Isobel,’

He whispered to Widow Staines,

‘The birds fly on to her shoulders, then

She waves her hands, and it rains!’

The Widow Staines had a flapping mouth

And was widely known as a b***h,

It wasn’t long and her evil tongue

Had labelled the girl a witch.

The slander travelled from mouth to mouth

And the women looked askance,

‘Til one told Isobel, ‘Ambrose Crudd,

Said you do the witches dance!’

Isobel stopped, and darkened her brow,

And set her lips in a line,

‘It’s time that somebody shut his mouth,

For what he says is a crime!’

She wandered into the wood at dusk

And broke off a willow wand,

Found Ambrose hiding under a tree

And conjured a lily pond.

‘You have two choices that I can see,

To drown right there in the mud,

Or I can turn you to anything

That I feel like, Ambrose Crudd.’

The water rose on up to his neck

As he sank in a muddy hole,

‘You’re always digging up secrets, so

I’ll turn you into a mole!’

A twitch of the wand, and he was gone,

Deep burrowing underground,

And if you should look for Ambrose Crudd

You know he’ll never be found.

The Widow Staines was dead in her chair

All gagged, and tied and bound,

You’ll not hear the tale in Quaking Vale

For Isobel’s still around!

David Lewis Paget

© 2013 David Lewis Paget

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Featured Review

JR Darewood

You evoke the feel of an old-time fairy tale perfectly, complete with the dark supernatural twists and the moral lessons. (If only we had kids listen to things with meaning today instead of Disney's blue Genies that transform into Elvis!) The names were perfect, word choice great for the period and geography of the piece, and the rhymes and rhythm clever and seamless. I won't be talking trash about Isobel anytime soon.

Posted 11 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Reviews

Zahra

Very enjoyable read. Very interesting names. I thought poor isobel was going to burnt when declared a witch, but nice twist. Crudd kind of reminds of the media today, but he recieved what he desesved.