The Burning of Agnes Sampson - by DB Sullivan

The Burning of Agnes Sampson - A Gothic Poem by DB Sullivan

May peace and truth beguide my wounded soul

That tends and treats the sick with caring hands.

Compassioned heart for mothers new, and ole,

And infants brought to bear within these lands.

With bone and herb, and balm and flame, my trade

Is healing, birthing, mending. Berwick North

At Nether Keith I dwelt. No accolade

I sought, but honed my skills and blossomed forth.

Though widowed, I, with help of kith and kin,

Provided care and nourishment to those

Whom surgeons spurned or medics cast chagrin.

This tough but noble calling here, I chose.

These humble skills in time became revered,

Until the cold distrust of church appeared.

Until the cold distrust of church appeared,

Content was I, to toil through my days.

My truthful testimony volunteered,

When called upon to answer for my ways.

At Haddington I stood and spoke my truth,

That ne’er was dev’lish force about my dwell,

Nor thoughts nor will of evil. Nay, forsooth!

Tis virtue that beguides this mortal shell.

“A godly, humble, simple maid am I,

That tends the sick and lame with loving touch.

The wanton work of evil I decry,

And guard myself from Satan’s icy clutch”.

But far from calming fears of devil’s coup,

The Presbet’ry’s suspicion only grew.

The Presbet’ry’s suspicion only grew

As I continued practicing my craft.

My prayerful, solemn words they’d misconstrue,

And scribe them as an evil, carnal draft.

“All kinds of ills that ever be, be gone!

Both more and less and all the mass - and stone!

And right the blood that reeked o’er truthful rood

Of forth and flesh and of the Earth and bone!”

By name of God and Christ, I conjure thee!

That binds and heals the sinew and the vein

That sin shall have no vex of malady

And cast away the putrid and profane.

As sabbats turn, and seasons changing tide,

Contrary winds would surely soon collide.

Contrary winds would surely soon collide

As James the Sixth’s ambition sought to claim

Dominion over witch or devil’s bride

Who’d threaten order o’er his vast domain.

On Hallows Eve the coven met, they say,

At Auld Kirk Green with witches dancing free.

Consorting with the devil fore the day

And sacrificed a cat to sink at sea.

By this I was arrested for the crime

Of witchcraft and a plot to sink the king

While sailing home with bride on seas sublime

Where ghastly winds and danger forth did bring.

Imprisoned now, in chains, awaiting fate

With torture’s looming fear yond prison gate.

With torture’s looming fear yond prison’s gate,

I steel myself for what may lie ahead.

With nerves alight, in silence here, I wait,

Consumed with ever growing sense of dread.

To dungeon cast where instruments of pain

Would tear my flesh and stab unto the bone.

Deprived of sleep, my thoughts became insane.

My will began to fade, my spirit flown.

Despite the searing pain and agony,

My innocence of evil, I maintained.

The torture did not break my sanity,

Until their searching left me unconstrained.

When privy mark of devil came to view,

Confessed, I did, declaring charges true.

Confessed, I did, declaring charges true,

And brought to trial swiftly on the morn.

I never would be spared from death, I knew,

When guilty I did plead, confession sworn.

At Holyrood the trial did commence

With charges read and evidence amassed.

No counsel did I keep, nor recompense

In predetermined manner, judgement passed.

Convicting witches demonstrates the might

Of King, despite perpetuating lies,

Regardless of the sin of claiming “right”

While wrongfully convicted person dies.

But such is true of Christian powerlust

That soon I’ll be returning to the dust.

That soon I’ll be returning to the dust

Is fear and anguish, tormenting my soul.

To die by execution as I must,

I pray that God will soon receive me whole.

The rope ‘round neck was drawn for bringing death,

Constricted, strangled, held to agonize

And suffocated wind and air and breath.

Asphyxiating into my demise.

With final, fading vision seeing flames,

My body, limp and hanging from the stake,

As fire consumes my flesh and fin’lly claims,

My life, my name, my truth, let none forsake.

A casualty of Christian wrathful toll,

May peace and truth beguide my wounded soul.

Gothic Poetry by DB Sullivan

Copyright ©2025 by D B Sullivan. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.