Witch of the West-Mer-Lands

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 Maid of the Winding Mere
can make thee hale and soond"

"So course well, my brindled hounds, and fetch me the mountain hare
Whose coat is as grey as the Westwater, 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 West-Mer-Lands
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
And below the hill was the brightest star when he heard the owlet cry

Saying, "Why do you ride this way, and wharfore came you here?"
"I seek the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands
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 through't the cleft of the Kirkstane Pass, the winding water lay"
He said, "Lie down, my brindled hounds, and rest, 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
you may 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 lake, and fast and fleet gaed 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 his grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride

Saying, "Course well, my brindled hounds,
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 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
She's kissed his pale lips once and twice
and three times, round again
And she's bound his wounde with the goldenrod,
full fast in her arms he lay,
And he has risen hale and soond,
with the sun high in the day

She said, "Ride with your brindled hound at heel
and your good grey hawk in hand
There's nane can harm the knight who's lain
with the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands"