1. |
The Bitter Withy
04:49
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As it fell out on a high holiday / Some drops of rain did fall,
Our Saviour asked his mother dear / If he might play at ball.
“Go play at the ball, my own dear son / ‘Tis time that you were gone.
But don’t let me hear of any complaints / At night when you come home.”
So up Lincorn and down Lincorn / Our Saviour he did run
Until he came to the well of fortune / Where he met three jolly lordlings.
“Well met, well met, three jolly lordlings / Your bodies are all safe I see.
And which of you three jolly lordlings / Will come play at ball with me?”
“Come play at the ball? We’re lords’ and ladies’ sons / Born in a bower and all.
And you are only a poor maiden’s child / Born in an oxen’s stall.”
“If you are lords’ and ladies’ sons / Born in a bower and all,
I’ll make it appear at the very latter end / That I am above you all.”
So our Saviour made a bridge of the beams of the sun / And over the sea went he,
And these three jolly lordlings followed / And they were drowned all three.
So up Lincorn and down Lincorn / Their mothers they did call,
Saying “Mary mild, call home your child / For ours are drowned all.”
So Mary mild called home her child / And laid him across her knee,
And with a handful of bitter withy / She gave him slashes three.
“Oh! the withy, the bitter withy / Thou caused me to smart.
Oh the withy shall be the very first tree / That shall perish and die at the heart.”
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2. |
Child Owlet
05:02
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Oh I sit into my bower / Sewing a silken seam
A bonny shirt for Child Owlett as he goes out and in
His face was fair, long was his hair / I’ve called him to come near
“Oh, you must cuckold Lord Ronald / For all his lands and gear”
“Oh, lady, hold your tongue, for shame / For such should ne’er be done
How can I cuckold Lord Ronald / And me his sister’s son?”
Then I’ve taken a small penknife / That lay here by my side
I’ve pricked myself below my breast / Which made my body bleed
Lord Ronald’s come into my bower / Where I did make my moan
“Oh, what is all this blood”, he said / “That shines on your breastbone?”
“Young Child Owlet, your sister’s son / Is new gone from my bower
Had I not been a good woman / I’d be Child Owlet’s whore”
Then he has taken Child Owlet / Thrown him in prison strong
And all his men, a council held / To judge Child Owlet’s wrong
Some said, Child Owlet, he should hang / Some said that he should burn
Some said that they’d have Child Owlet / Between wild horses torn
There was no grass on Elkin Moor / No broom nor bonny rush
But’s dripping with Child Owlet’s blood / And pieces of his flesh
There was not stone on Elkin Moor / No broom nor bonny whin
But’s dripping with Child Owlet’s blood / And pieces of his skin
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3. |
Lyke Wake Dirge
05:08
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This ae nighte, this ae nighte
Every nighte and alle
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte
And Christe receive thy saule
When thou from hence away art past
Every nighte and alle
To Whinny-muir thou com'st at last
And Christe receive thy saule
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoen
Every nighte and alle
Sit thee down and put them on
And Christe receive thy saule
From Whinny-muir when thou may'st pass,
Every nighte and alle
To Brig o' Dread thou com'st at last
And Christe receive thy saule
From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
Every nighte and alle
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last
And Christe receive thy saule
This ae nighte, this ae nighte
Every nighte and alle
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte
And Christe receive thy saule
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4. |
The Wife of Usher's Well
03:55
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There lived a wife in Usher’s Well
a wealthy wife was she
She had three stout and stalwart sons
and sent them over sea
They had not been from Usher’s Well
a week but barely one
When word came to the carline wife
that her three sons were gone.
It fell about the Martinmass
the nights were long and dark
Three sons came home to Usher’s Well
their hats were made of bark
That neither grew in forest green
nor on any wooded rise
But from the north side of the tree
that grows in Paradise.
Cold clay, cold clay
hangs over my head
And green grass grows at my feet
And every tear that you shed for me
but wets my winding sheet
“Blow up the fire, my maidens all
bring water from the well
Since my darling babes are home
they’ve come home safe and well.”
“We may not eat your bread mother
nor may we drink your wine
For cold death is lord of all
to him we must resign.”
Then up and crowed the blood red cock
and up and crowed the grey
The oldest to the youngest said
“It’s time we were away
For the cock does crow and the day doth show
and the channering worm doth chide
And we must go
to the gates of Paradise”
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5. |
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The king had been a prisoner / At a prison long in Spain
And Willy of the Winsbury / Has lain long with his daughter at home
“What ails you, what ails you, my daughter Jane / Why look you so pale and wan?
Have you had any sore sickness / Or yet been sleeping with a man?”
“Cast off, cast off your berry-brown gown / You stand naked upon the stone
That I may know you by your shape / If you be a maiden or none.”
And she’s cast off her berry-brown gown / She stood naked upon the stone
Her apron was low and her haunches were round / Her face was pale and wan.
“Was it a lord or a duke or a knight / Or a man of birth and fame
Or was it with one of my serving men / That’s lately come out of Spain.”
“No it wasn’t with a lord nor a duke or a knight / Nor a man of birth and fame
But it was with Willy of Winsbury / I could hide no longer alone.”
The king has called on his merry men all / By thirty and by three
Sa ying “Fetch me this Willy o’Winsbury / For hanged he shall be.”
But when he came the king before / He was clad all in the red silk
His hair was like the strands of gold / His skin was as white as the milk.
“And it is not a wonder” said the king / “That my daughter’s love you did win
For if I was a woman, as I am a man / My bedfellow you would have been.”
“Now will you marry my daughter Jane / By the truth of your right hand?
Oh will you marry my daughter Jane, I’ll make you the lord of my land.”
“Well yes, I’ll marry your daughter Jane / By the truth of my right hand
Well yes, I’ll marry your daughter Jane / But I’ll not be the lord of your land.”
He’s mounted her on a milk-white steed / Himself on a daple grey
He has made her the lady of as much land / As she shall ride in a long summer’s day.
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Cerys Hafana Machynlleth, UK
Cerys Hafana is a composer and multi-instrumentalist who mangles, mutates, and transforms traditional music. She explores the creative possibilities and unique qualities of the triple harp, and is also interested in found sounds, archive materials and electronic processing. ... more
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