Bitter Withy

As it fell out on a high holiday

Small rain from the sky did fall

Sweet Jesus asked of his own mother dear

Whether he might play at ball

To play, to play, dear child she did say

It's time that you have been gone

And don't let me hear complaints about you

At night when you do come home

Now our Savior walked down into yonder town

As far as the holy, holy well

And there he met three of the finest children

That ever any tongue could tell

Good morn, good morn, good morn, said they

Good morning, then said he, said he

Now which of you three fine children

Will play at ball with me

Oh we are lords and ladies sons

Born in a bowery hall

And you are but a maiden's child

Born in an oxen stall

Now our savior built a bridge with the beams of the sun

and over the water ran he, ran he

And the three jolly children followed after him

And drowned they were all three

The upward ball and the downward ball

Their mothers they did wail and squall

Saying, Mary mild, fetch home your child

For ours are drownded all

Then Mary mild picked a handful of withies

And laid our dear savior across her knee

And with that handful of withy twigs

She gave him slashes three

Oh cursed be to the bitter withy

That has caused me to smart, to smart

And that shall be the very first tree

That shall perish right at the heart