Witches
A shadow rests on Paisley's brow, And every year imparts, Thoughts of those of vanished hours, Rests gently on our hearts. O the day, that shadow fell, A summer's day in June, When seven folk were hanged and burned, In dear Auld Paisley Toun. The cry of "witch" Upon their minds, As people came to scoff, Seven souls led through the streets, Their tortured bodies rough. Although the "witch" has disappeared, Opinions go on strong, Today they're judged by different names, As hatred still lives on. The flames are of a different hue, But scorch us just the same, Drowned at sea or sent away, few immigrants remain. The glowing embers light again, For every silenced man, Gays or trans and black or white, Again a fire is fanned. When the last witch cursed the town, 'Twas not against the folk, She cursed the views in people's hearts which led to pyre and smoke. Let us also curse the hate which lies upon our minds, Passed to us by false ideas, opinions misaligned. As as we rise with thoughts of good, Then only good remains, Seven souls in fire slained Will not have died in vain.