Bitter Withy Lyrics - Singles - Lloyd

BITTER WITHY 

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 

recorded by MaColl & Lloyd- English & Scottish Ballads; Roberts & 

Barrand - Nowell Sing We Clear 

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