A changeling born of Burslem town,
She shunned her mother in favour of sow,
Upon her shoulder her familiar crow,
Of Molly Leigh, so the story goes
She’d make her ways up and down the streets,
With a cart of hay and soured milk,
Past the whispers of rumours rife,
Don’t cross Molly Leigh or she’ll witch thee
The reverend could stand Molly no more,
With a gut full of ale he duly swore,
“I will not rest til I see her hang,
For am I not a Christian man”
And as he said these fateful words,
A crow did caw and the ale turned,
The reverend cried in agony,
“I swear that witch has poisoned me”
When he rose from his bed a month had passed
The crone was no more he’d missed his chance
To his surprise he found she had not hanged
Instead interred in holy ground
“Damn the fool priest Damn Molly leigh
I swear to the Lord this shall not be
I will prize the lid of your hell bound tomb
And drive a stake to the heart of thee”
In the Yard of St John’s All Hallows Eve
We sing these words as summons to thee
In the hopes you may someday find peace
Oh I ask you won’t you play with me
Molly Leigh, Molly Leigh,
You can’t catch me,
Chase me round the old apple tree
Molly Leigh, Molly Leigh,
You shan’t catch me,
Chase me down all the holes I can see,
Chase me down all the holes I can see
