A yellow flush of leaves lights up the ground,
Where ash and bone, the justice of the caucus,
Got piled, enough to raise a little mound.
And not just Matthew Hopkins saw the profits,
And not just priests and jailers joined the chorus,
Where magistrates in Barber walk the coppice,
On paths that keep the tread of women bound,
To give their lives, that sheriffs might keep office,
And with each step they hear a crackling sound.