THE BITTER WITHY.
| 1As it fell out on a bright holiday, |
|
2At ball ! at ball ! my own dear Son ! |
| Small hail from the sky did fall ; |
It is time that you were gone ; | |
| Our Saviour asked His mother dear |
And don't let me hear of any doings | |
| If he may go and play at ball. |
At night when you come home. | |
3So up Lincull and down Lincull
Our sweetest Saviour ran,
And there He met three rich young lords :
Good morning ! to you all.
4Good morn ! good morn ! good morn ! said they :
Good morning ! then said He,
O which of you three rich young men
Will play at ball with me ?
5We are all lords' and ladies' sons,
Born in our bower and hall ;
And Thou art nothing but a poor maid's child,
Born in an ox's stall.
6If you're all lords' and ladies' sons,
Born in your bower and hall,
I will make you believe in your latter end ;
I'm an angel above you all.
7So He made Him a bridge with the beams of the sun,
And o'er the water crossed He.
These rich young lords followed after Him,
And drowned they were all three.
8Then up Lincull and down Lincull
These young lords' mothers ran,
Saying : Mary mild, fetch home your child,
For ours He has drowned all.
| 9So Mary mild fetched home her child |
|
10O withy ! O withy ! O bitter withy ! |
| And laid Him across her knee ; |
Thou hast caused Me to smart ; | |
| With a handful of green withy twigs |
And the withy shall be the very first tree | |
| She gave Him slashes three. |
That shall perish at the heart ! | |