Song, Chant, Poetry, Stories and Satire for the Pagan Community

This entry made: 03/13/2000

Title: Witch of the Westmoreland
Lyrics by: Archie Fisher
Tune: original
Date:
Source: http://www.uoguelph.ca/~bmyers/pagan/poetry.html
Recorded on: "Between the Breaks - Live!" Stan Rogers, 1979; "We Believe," Andras & Deirdre Arthen, 1993
Subject: Magic

NOTE: lines in parentheses are only sung on the version done by Archie
Fisher (and the Arthens), not by Stan Rogers.

Pale was the wounded knight that bore the rowan shield 
Loud 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 witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and sound
(OR: There's none but the Maid of the Winding Mere...)

(So course well, my brindled hounds, and fetch me the mountain hare)
(Who's coat is as green as the West water 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 Westmereland can save thy dear life's
blood.)

So turn, turn your stallion's head 'til his red mane flies in the wind 
And the rider of the moon goes by and the bright star falls behind."
And clear was the paley moon when his shadow passed him by 
Below the hills were the brightest stars when he heard the owlet cry 

Saying "Why do you ride this way, and wherefore came you here?" 
"I seek the Witch of the Westmorland that dwells by the winding mere."
("Then fly free your good grey hawk to gather the goldenrod)
(And face your horse into the clouds above yon gay green wood.") 
And it's weary by the Ullswater and the misty brake fern way 
Til throught the cleft in the Kirkstane Pass the winding water lay 

He said "Lie down, my brindled hound and rest ye, 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 ye will serve me best of all" 

And it's down to the water's brim he's born 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 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 
High overhead the grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride 
Saying "Course well, my brindled hound, and fetch me the jet black mare 
Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, and bring me the maiden fair" 

She said "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword. Lay down thy rowan shield 
For I see by the briney 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
And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice and three times round again

And 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
And she said "Ride with your brindled hound at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand 
There's none can harm the knight who's lain with the Witch of the Westmorland."