Bitter Withy

As I fell out on a bright holiday

Small hail from the sky did fall

Our Saviour asked his mother dear

If he might go and play at ball

"At ball? At ball? My own dear son?

It's time that you were gone,

And don't let me hear any mischief

At night when you come home."

So it's up the hill, and down the hill

Our sweet young Saviour run,

Until he met three rich young lords

"Good morning" to each one.

"Good morn", "good morn", "good morn"

said they, "Good morning" then said He

"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.

"Ah bitter withy. Ah bitter withy

that causes me to smart,"

And the withy shall be very first tree

To perish at the heart.