4 Traditional Songs: No. 4, The Bitter Withy

"As it befell on a bright holiday

Small hail from the sky did fall

Our Saviour asked his mother dear

If he might go and play at ball

At ball, at ball, my own dear Son

It's time that you were gone

And don't let me hear of any mischief

At night when you come home

the hill and down the hill

Our sweet young Saviour ran

Until he met three rich young lords

Good morning to each one

Good morn, good morn, good morn said they

Good morning then said he

And which of you three rich young lords

Will play at ball with me?

We all are lords' and ladies' sons

Born in a baron hall

And you are nothing but a poor maid's child

Born in an oxen stall

Sweet Jesus turned him round about

He neither laughed nor smiled

But the tears came trickling from his eyes

Like water from the sky

Then he made him a bridge from the beams of sun

And over the water ran he

The rich young lords chased after him

And droned they were all three

Then up the hill and down the hill

Three rich young mothers ran

Saying May mild fetch home your child

For drowned is ours each one

So Mary mild fetched home her child

And laid him across her knee

And with a handful of withy twigs

She gave him slashes three

Ah bitter withy, ah bitter withy

You've caused me to smart

And the willow shall be the very first tree

To perish at the heart"