Pale was the wounded knight, that bore the Roman shield,
And loud and cruel were the ravens cries as he feasted on the field.
Green moss and heather bland, will never staunch the flood,
There's none but the Witch of the
Westmorland can save thy dear life's blood.
Turn, turn your stallions head, till his read mane flies in the wind,
And the rising of the moon goes by, and the bright star falls behind.
And clear was the paley moon, when shadow past him by,
And below the hill were the
brightest stars when he heard the ellard cry.
Saying, why do you ride this way and where fore-came you here?
I seek the Witch of the Westmorland, who dwells by the winding mere.
And its weary by the Ullswater, and misty the Brakefen way,
Till through the cleft of the Kirkstall pass, the winding water lay.
And he said Lie down you brindled hound and rest ye my old grey hawk,
And thee my steed may graze thy fell, for I must this mountain walk.
But come when you hear my horn, and answer swift the call,
For I fear when the sun will rise
this morn, you'll serve me best of all.
And its down to the waters brim, he's born the roman shield,
And the golden rod he has cast in, to see what the lake my yield.
And wet rose she from the lake, and fast and flee went she,
And half the form of a maiden fair, with a jet black mares body.
Oh, loud, long and shrill he blew, till his steed was by his side,
High overhead the grey hawk flew, and swiftly he did ride.
Saying, course well me brindled
hound, and fetch me the jet black mare,
And stoop and strike with good grey
hawk, and bring me the maiden fair.
And she said prey sheath thy silvery sword, lie down thy roman shield,
For I see by the briny blood that flows, you wounded in the field.
She stood in a gown of velvet blue, bound round with a silver chain,
And she's kissed his pale lips once
and twice, and three times round again.
And shes bound his wounds with a
golden rod, for fast in her arms he lay,
And he has risen whole in sow, with the sun high in the day.
And she said ride with your brindled
hound, and your good grey hawk in hand
For there's none can harm the knights
whose lay, with the Witch of the Westmorland
No there's none can harm the knights
whose lay, with the Witch of the Westmorland.

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