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Bitter Withy
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Lloyd
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Bitter withy
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As it fell out on a high holiday
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Small rain from the sky did fall
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Sweet Jesus asked of his own mother dear
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Whether he might play at ball
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To play, to play, dear child she did say
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It's time that you have been gone
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And don't let me hear complaints about you
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At night when you do come home
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Now our Savior walked down into yonder town
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As far as the holy, holy well
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And there he met three of the finest children
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That ever any tongue could tell
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Good morn, good morn, good morn, said they
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Good morning, then said he, said he
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Now which of you three fine children
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Will play at ball with me
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Oh we are lords and ladies sons
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Born in a bowery hall
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And you are but a maiden's child
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Born in an oxen stall
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Now our savior built a bridge with the beams of the sun
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And over the water ran he, ran he
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And the three jolly children followed after him
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And drowned they were all three
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The upward ball and the downward ball
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Their mothers they did wail and squall
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Saying, Mary mild, fetch home your child
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For ours are drownded all
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Then Mary mild picked a handful of withies
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And laid our dear savior across her knee
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And with that handful of withy twigs
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She gave him slashes three
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Oh cursed be to the bitter withy
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That has caused me to smart, to smart
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And that shall be the very first tree
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That shall perish right at the heart
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Recorded by Macoll & Lloyd- English & Scottish Ballads; Roberts &
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Barrand - Nowell Sing We Clear
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Filename[ bitwithy
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Play. Exe bitwithy
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Sf
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