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The Witch of the Westmorland

   Pale was the wounded knight
   That bore the rowan shield
   Loud and cruel were the ravens' cries
   That feasted on the field, saying:
   
   "Beck water, cold and clear,
   Will never cleanse your wound
   There's none but the maid of the winding mere
   Can make thee hale and sound.
   
   "So turn, turn your stallion's head
   Till 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
   And he heard the owlet cry, saying
   
   "Why do you ride this way,
   And wherefore came you here?"
   "I seek the witch of the Westmorland
   Who 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
   Till through the cleft of the Kirkstane Pass
   The winding water lay.
   
   He said, "Lie down, my brindled hounds,
   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 e'er the sun shall rise this morn
   You will 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 waves,
   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
   Till his steed was by his side,
   High overhead the grey hawk flew
   And swiftly he did ride, saying:
   
   "Course well, my brindled hounds,
   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 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.
   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.
   
   She said, "Ride with you brindled hounds 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.
   
   Words and music by Archie Fisher, ©1976 Ard-Ri Music.
   
   Our version leaves out a couple of Archie's verses and "de-accents"
   much of the rest, making it closer to Stan Rogers' rendition than to
   Archie's. For the original version, see the Mudcat Cafe archive.
   
   
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