THE BITTER WITHY

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Song Title
THE BITTER WITHY
Writers
Peter Bellamy, Roy Wood
Publisher
TOTAL MUSIC SERVICES, INC. (BMI)
Co-Publisher
Non-TRO Affiliate
% Publisher Controls
100%
Territory Controlled
US AND CANADA
Themes/Keywords
1960's, Bell, Dance, Holiday, Play, River, Snow
Lyrics
As it fell out on a bright holiday,
Small hail from the sky did fall,
A savior asked his mother dear
If he might 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 doings,
Tonight when you return.

So it’s up the hill and down the hill,
Our sweet young savior run,
Until he met three rich young lords,
A-playing in the sun.
Good morn, good morn, good morn cried they,
Good morning all says he,
And which of you three rich young lords
Will play at ball with me?

Well, we’re all lords’ and ladies’ sons,
All born in the baron’s hall,
And you are nothing but a Jew’s child,
Born in an oxen stall.
Well, though you’re lords’ and ladies’ sons,
All born in a baron’s hall,
I’ll prove to you it’s your lacquering,
I’m an angel above you all.

So he built him a bridle from the beams of the sun,
And over the river danced he,
The rich young lords followed after him
And drowned they was all three.
So it’s 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,
She laid him across her knee,
And with a bundle of withy twigs,
She gave him thrashes three.
Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy,
That causes me this smart,
Oh the withy shall be the very first tree,
To perish at the heart.

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