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Archie Fisher
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The 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
Who's coat is as grey as the west water, 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
Below the hills were the brightest stars when he heard the owlet cry
Saying, 'Why do you ride this way, and wherefore 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 in the Kirkstane Pass, the winding water lay'
He said, 'Lie down, my brindled hound, and rest ye, my good grey hawk
And thee, my steed, may graze thy fill, for I must dismount and walk
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But come when you hear my horn and answer swift the call
For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn ye 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 lake, and 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, 'til his steed was by his side
High overhead the grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride
Saying, 'Course well, my brindled hound, 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 briney 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 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
And she said, 'Ride with your brindled hound at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's lain with the Witch of the West-Mer-Lands'
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