Bitter Withy Songtext
von John Tams

As it fell out one high holiday
Small hail from the heaven did fall
Our saviour asked his mother, "Mary, my own
If you might go and play at the ball"
"At the ball, at the ball, my own dearest son
It′s time that you were gone
But don't let me hear of any misdoings
At night when you go home"
So it′s up the hill and down the hill
Our sweet young saviours run
There he spied three rich lords' sons
Playing in the sun
"Good morn, good morn, good morn," said they
"Good mornin' all," said he
"Now which of you three rich lords′ sons
Is going to play at the ball with me?"
"But we′re all lords' and ladies′ sons
Born in our bower and hall
And you are nothing but a poor maiden's child
Born in an ox′s stall"


"Well, if you're all lords′ and ladies' sons
Born in your bower and hall
I will make you believe in your latter end
I'm an angel above you all"
So he built him a bridge from beams of the sun
And over the river ran he
And these rich lords′ sons, they followed after him
And drowned, they were, all three
Then it′s up the hill and down the hill
These rich lords' mothers run
Crying, "Mary, my own, fetch home your child
For ours he has drowned each one"
And so Mary mild, she fetched home her child
And she put him on the cross of her knee
And it′s with a handful of green, withy twigs
She's gave him lashes three
"Oh, the bitter withy, the bitter withy
Thou causeth me to smart
And the withy shalt be the very first three
To perish at the heart"