Sunday, 30 December 2007

From "The Bitter Withy"

“And which one of you three rich young lords
Will play at the ball with me?”
“Ah, we're all lords' and ladies' sons
Born in a bower and hall
And you are nought but a poor maid's child
Born in an ox's stall”
“If I am nought but a poor maid's child
Born in a ox's stall
I'll make you believe at your latter end
I'm an angel above you all”
So he made a bridge of beams of the sun
And over the river ran he
And after him ran these rich young lords
And drowned they all three.
Then it's up the hill, and it's down the hill
Three rich young mothers run
Crying “Mary Mild, fetch home her child
For ours he's drowned each one.”
So Mary Mild fetched home her child
And laid him across her knee
And with a handful of withy twigs
She gave him lashes three.
And the withy shall be very first tree
To perish at the heart.

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