Witch of the West-Mer-Lands - Archie Fisher, Wendy Grossman, Kathy Westra

Pale was the wounded knight

That bore the rowan shield,

And cruel were the raven’s cries

That feasted on the field,

Saying, «Beck water, cold and clear,

Will never clean your wound.

There’s none but the Maid of the Winding Mere

Can mak' thee hale and soond.»

«So course well, my brindled hounds,

And fetch me the mountain hare

Whose coat is as gray as the Wastwater

Or as white as the lily fair.»

Who said, «Green moss and heather bands

Will never staunch the flood.

There’s none but the Witch of the West-mer-lands

Can save thy dear life’s blood.»

«So turn, turn your stallion’s head

Till his red mane flies in the wind,

And the rider o' the moon goes by

And the bright star falls behind.»

And clear was the paley moon

When his shadow passed him by;

Below the hill was the brightest star

When he heard the houlet cry,

Saying, «Why do you ride this way

And wharfore cam' you here?»

«I seek the Witch of the West-mer-lands

That dwells by the Winding mere.»

«Then fly free your good grey hawk

To gather the goldenrod,

And face your horse intae the clouds

Above yon gay green wood.»

And it’s weary by the Ullswater

And the misty brake fern way

Till through the cleft o' the Kirkstane Pass

The winding water lay.

He said, «Lie down, my brindled hounds,

And rest, my good grey 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,

For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn

You may serve me best of all.»

And it’s down to the water’s brim

He’s borne the rowan shield,

And the goldenrod he has cast in

To see what the lake might yield.

And wet rose she from the lake

And fast and fleet gaed she,

One half the form of a maiden fair

With a jet-black mare’s body.

And loud, long and shrill he blew,

Till his steed was by his side;

High overhead his grey hawk flew

And swiftly he did ride,

Saying, «Course well, my brindled hounds,

And fetch me the jet-black mare!

Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk,

And bring me the maiden fair!»

She said, «Pray sheath thy silvery sword,

Lay down thy rowan shield.

For I see by the briny blood that flows

You’ve been wounded in the field.»

And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue,

Bound 'round with a silver chain,

She’s kissed his pale lips aince and twice

And three times 'round again.

She’s bound his wounds with the goldenrod,

Full fast in her arms he lay,

And he has risen, hale and sound,

With the sun high in the day.

She said, «Ride with your brindled hound at heel

And your good grey hawk in hand.

There’s nane can harm the knight who’s lain

With the Witch of the West-mer-land.»