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In dole I dree the days all lonely here, A young girl by her mother shut from life, Who guardeth me with jealousy and strife: But by the cross of God I swear to her, If still she keeps me pent up thus to pine, I'll say: "Aroint thee, thou fell hag malign!"

Aroint thee to thy rite, Nor smear on me thy foul contagion!

Aroint thee," he said to Lochinvar, "for a young ruffler and spit-fire.

This reminds me of Shakespeare's “Aroint thee, witch!”

“Aroint thee, sorceress!” said the abbot.