Poem by Anonymous

The Bitter Withy

As it befell on a bright holiday
Small hail from the sky did fall.
Our Saviour asked His mother dear
If he might go play at ball.

At ball, at ball, my own dear son,
It’s time that you were gone,
But don’t let me hear of any mischief
At night when you come home.

So up the hill and down the hill 
Our sweet young Saviour ran, 
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, 
O which of you three rich young lords 
Will play at ball with me?

We are all lords’ and ladies’ sons, 
Born in our bower and hall, 
And Thou art nothing but a poor maid’s child, 
Born in an ox’s stall. 

It’s if I’m nothing but a poor maid’s child,
Born in an ox’s stall, 
I’ll make you believe in your latter end; 
I'm an angel above you all. 

So He made Him a bridge with the beams of the sun, 
And o’er the water crossed He, 
These rich young lords chased after Him, 
And drowned they were all three. 

So up the hill and down the hill
Three rich young mothers run,
Crying: Mary mild, fetch home your child, 
For ours He’s drowned each one. 

So Mary mild fetched home her child 
And laid Him across her knee,
With a handful of green willow twigs
She gave Him slashes three. 

Ah bitter withy, ah bitter withy,
You have caused Me to smart, 
And the willow shall be the very first tree
That perish at the heart. 

1. The Banks o’ Glaizart
2. Sir Richard Whittington’s Advancement
3. The Cave of Pope
4. Blenheim
5. Kitty of Coleraine

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