Rue: something wicked this way grows...

Rue, herb of grace, herb of woe,
On cankered soil and dead men’s bones you grow,
Dark and wicked things you know,
Herb of grace, herb of woe.

Four thieves plundered through the land,
Robbing bodies black with plague;
A lotion kept the Black Death at bay,
One that included the herb of grace.

Your sap can burn the unguarded flesh,
Used as a whip, you can raise a weal.
You look so innocent and small,
But your juice can sicken as well as heal.

Companion of witches and helper of thieves,
The Holy called you Herb of Grace;
But are you a talisman against the dark,
Or do you pave the road to a darker place?

Rue, herb of grace, herb of woe,
On cankered soil and dead men’s bones you grow,
Dark and wicked things you know,
Herb of grace, herb of woe.