Come, gather round all,
And I’ll tell you a tale
Of murderous magic
From here, in this Dale.

Up on’t moor above Ramsgill,
Two great crags you’ll see
And how they got their name
Is an old mystery.

Some say they were giants!
Ancient sentinels turned to stone.
Back when Albion fell
To the new gods from Rome,

Others say they’re witches!
Jenny Twigg and her daughter, Tib.
Two women turned to stone
For the dark magic they did.

You see Jenny and Tib
Ran an Inn on the moor
And many a traveller
Would pass through their door

Seeking food and fine ale,
Called by fire and the fiddle
From London to Edinburgh
That moor’s right in the middle!

Now one dark fateful night,
Around this time of year,
From over the moor
Three Scots peddlers appeared,

And they weren’t to know,
As they dropped down to the Nidd;
That their walk up to Jenny’s
Would be the last thing they did!

There they drank off their journey,
So deep they fell snoring!
And Jenny told folk
That they’d gone by the morning.

But they’d traded their cattle
For gold and good whiskey.
Fine cargoe, if known
Made their journey more risky.

So folk down dale in Pateley
Soon knew summat was off:
Because the lads in the Crown
Were expecting some Scotch!

And when that didn’t show,
The town sent out its searchers.
They quick took to the tops!
With spaniels and lurchers!

But no trace could be found,
Of the men or their packs.
If they ever left Jenny’s,
Then they didn’t leave tracks.

For days they were looking,
With horse and with hound.
But no sign that they’d ever
Left Jenny’s was found.

This made elders all talk
Of Nidd Boggles at play!
Those fae little tricksters
Know to take folk away.

Some whispered the Barguest
Of Brimham had got ‘em!
That Nidd spectre of ages
Should never be forgotten!

The old tales describe it
As a shapeshifting beast-dog,
That lures travellers to death,
Turned to stone in the fog.

But more spoke of witches:
Jenny Twigg and her daughter Tib.
There’s always been talk
Of the sorcery they did!

Meanwhile back up at Scar,
Folk knew something was odd,
Because up on the hill
Was the peddlers’ old dog!

For three days up there now,
He’d been digging and pining.
The whole valley lost sleep
From the sound of his whining.

When the search party got there
They set digging and quick.
But what they would find
Would make any man sick!

Their heads had been taken
Clean off with a wire!
Just three bodies remained,
Clearly burned on a pyre.

But from Jenny and Tib,
Whose guilt was now clear,
Not a sign of remorse!
And even less fear.

Both spoke with some pride
As they gave explanation,
That their crimes would bring fortune
To many generation:

“The old gods still dwell
In these hills, don’t you see?
And we’ve always made
Offerings to our deity!”

“Those three greedy pedlars
Are more useful dead.
The spell we have cast
Required trio of head!”

“We’ve protected this Dale
In the most ancient way!
Your great grandchildren
May come to thank us one day!”

“Three heads sacrificed
Where three great valleys meet
May the water flow free
Earth be rich, air be sweet.”

The crowd were aghast –
But a tiny bit grateful.
A curse and a gift!
An enchantment quite fateful!

Up on Dead Man’s Hill,
Three heads were soon found.
Laid whole and to rest
In St Chad’s holy ground.

And perhaps that’s what did it;
Their petrification!
To this day, up at Sype Land
Stand the pair and their apron.

They still call those crags witches!
Jenny Twigg and her daughter Tib.
Two women turned to stone,
For the dark magic they did.