Tytuł: Bitter withy

• Wykonawca: Lloyd
• Wyświetleń: 267

  
   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