There’s a coven of witches up here in Vermont
Who live by the Long Trail, and that’s where they haunt
For most of the time, all these witches are good
And they don’t go about casting spells, though they could
The witches have brooms and they sweep the trails clean
But they’re quiet and sly and they’ll rarely be seen
And if you are coming, they’ll disappear quick!
And all you might hear is the snap of a stick
You’ll think that it’s maybe a fox or a deer
You’d never imagine that witches live here!
You might catch a glimpse in some crannies or niches
But just walk on past, please don’t anger the witches
For these witches are not to be trifled with, folks
You’ll find out quite rapidly—they’re not a hoax!
If ever you’re hiking along the Long Trail
And suddenly hear an unsettling wail
Be warned for perhaps it’s a witch’s shrill cry
Who’s watching you carefully as you pass by
When those small beady eyes peer at you through the gloom
Take a pause and then wait for the sound of a broom
Swish swish swishing along where you just can’t quite see
Well perhaps you should not wait around, you should flee
You should run down the trail as the evening light fades
And the mist rises up from the bogs and the glades
For to stay would be folly, and just so you know
The witches have turned, and you’ve no place to go
But what makes them turn? Well, it’s you, don’t you see?
You have done something bad and they won’t let you be
The witches will know, yes, they’ll see what you’ve done
And there’s nothing left now but to pack up and run!
Or you might find yourself with a witch in your face
And you’ll wish, like some others, you weren’t in this place
A hiker, so carelessly, built a nice fire
But left it to burn! Oh the outcome was dire
For that night he vanished, and when the day dawned
They found him face down, right in Little Rock Pond
An arrogant woman decided to toss
Containers of food on the lush forest moss
And the next day they found her—a big bloody heap
On the jaggedy spine-breaking rocks of Deer’s Leap
A daring young man wrote his name on a cliff
He used to be handsome, and now he’s a stiff
The Ice Beds at White Rocks is now the last place
Where anyone ever caught sight of his face
So, when hiking these trails, pack it in! Pack it out!
You don’t want to be caught when there’s witches about
And don’t you dare litter, for that would be bad
As that will get all of the witches quite mad
They’ll call to their sisters, who’ll cackle and sneer
And wait in the darkness until you are near
Their faces, now ugly and twisted and cruel
Have big runny noses, and lips dripping drool
They’ll throw out a spell or a hex or, what’s worse
They’ll call up from somewhere an old-fashioned curse
Your eyes will then cross, your nose will get runny
You’ll trip and you’ll stumble and start walking funny
You’ll think it’s a trick, that it’s all in your head
But it won’t be so funny when you end up dead
You might lose your balance up high on a ridge
Or slip and fall off of the Clarendon Bridge
They’ll drive you with tricks to the den of a bear
Or tempt you along to a catamount’s lair
They’ll summon a lightning strike up on a peak
Or maybe they’ll drown you head down in a creek
Perhaps they’ll arrange that you slip on a log
Then get sucked to your death in a very deep bog
They’ll split you wide open, from shoulders to toes
Then leave you outside to be eaten by crows
Oh the outcomes are gruesome for you and your friends
If you don’t respect nature, you’ll all meet your ends
Your bodies will rot and they’ll make the earth rich
And the last thing you’ll hear is the laugh of a witch
So if you should hike over hills and through dales
Beware of the witches that haunt Vermont trails
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