As it befell on a high holiday,
Small rain from the sky did fall,
Our saviour asked his mother Mary
If he might go play at ball.
“At ball, at ball, my own dear son,
It’s time that you were gone!
And don’t let me hear of any mischief
At night when you come home.”
So up the road and past the wall
Our sweet young saviour run,
Until he met three rich young lords,
Good morning! to each one.
“Good morn! Good morn! Good morn!” said they.
“Good morning!” then said he.
“And which of you three rich young boys
Will play at ball with me?”
“Oh, we are lords’ and ladies’ sons,
Born in a baron’s hall,
And you are nothing but a poor maid’s son
Born in an oxen stall!”
“You may be lords’ and ladies’ sons,
Born in a baron’s hall,
But I’ll make you believe, at your latter end,
I was born to rule you all.”
So he built him a bridge of the beams of the sun,
And over the water crossed he.
These rich young lords followed after him,
And drowned they were all three.
Then up the road and past the wall
These young lords’ mothers ran,
Saying, “Mary mild, fetch home your child,
For ours he had drowned all!”
So Mary mild fetched home her child
And laid him across her knee.
And wikh a bundle of withy twigs
She gave him slashes tbree.
“O, bitter withy! O, bitter withy!
Thou causeth me to smart!
And the willow shall be the very first tree
To perish at the heart!”
– traditional English folk song