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Golden Bough - The Witch of the West-Mer-Lands lyrics
Pale was the wounded knight Who bore the rowan shield Loud and cruel were the raven’s cried That feasted on the field Saying black water cold and clear Will never clean your wound There’s none but the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands Can make thee hale and sound So turn turn your stallion’s head ‘Til his red mane flies in the wind And the rider of the moon goes by As the bright stars fall behind And queer was the paling moon When his shadow passed him by Below the hills were the brightest stars When he heard the owl cry Saying why do you ride this way And wherefore came you here? I seek the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands Who dwells by the winding mere And it’s weary by the owl’s water In a mist he found their way ‘Til through a cleft in the Kirkstane pass Where the winding waters lay He said “Lie down my brindle hound And rest ye my good gray hawk And thee my steed may graze thy fill For I must dismount and walk But come when you hear my horn And answer swift the call As sure as the sun will rise this morn You’ll serve me best of all” And it’s down to the water’s brim He’s born the rowan shield And the golden rod he has cast in To see what the lake might yield And wet rose she from the lake And fast and fleet went she One half the form of a maiden fair With a jet black mare’s body And loud long and shrill he blew ‘Til his steed was by his side Over head the gray hawk flew As swiftly he did ride Saying “course well my brindle hound Fetch me the jet black mare Stoop and strike my good gray hawk And bring me the maiden fair.” She said “Pray sheath thy silvery sword Lay down thy rowan shield I see by the briny blood that flows You’ve been wounded in the field.” And she stood in a gown of velvet blue Bound ‘round with a silver chain She’s kissed his pale lips once and twice And three times ‘round again And she’s bound his wounds with the golden rod Full fast in her arms he lay And he has risen hale and sound With the sun bright in the day She said “Ride with your brindle hound at heel And your good gray hawk at hand There’s none can harm the knight who’s lain With the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands |
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