As it fell out upon a bright holiday Small hail from the sky did fall Our Saviour asked his mother mild “Can I go and play at the ball?”
“At the ball, the ball, my own dear son It's time that you was gone But it's don't let me hear of any mischief At night when you come home.”
So its up the hill and down the hill Our sweet young Saviour ran Until he come to three rich lords' sons “Good morning, Sirs, each one.”
“Good morn, good morn, and good morn,” says they “It's thrice good morn,” says he. “And it's which of you three rich lords' sons Is gonna play at the ball with me?”
“Why we, we're lords, we're ladies' sons Born in a bower or hall But you, you're nothing but a poor maid's child You was born in an ox's stall.”
“Well, if I'm nothing but a poor maid's child Born in an ox's stall I'll make you believe in your latter end That I'm an angel above you all.”
And so he built him a bridge with the rays of the sun Over the river ran he Them three rich lords' sons, they followed him And it's drowned they were, all three.
And it's up the hill and it's down the hill Three weeping mothers ran Saying, “Mary mild, take home your child For ours he's drowned each one.”
And so it's Mary mild, she took home her child And laid him across her knee And it's with a switch of the bitter withy She's given him slashes three.
Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy You caused me to smart And now the willow shall be the very first tree Gonna perish at the heart.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
