Pale was the wounded night

That bore the rowan shield

Loud and cruel were the raven's cries

As he feasted on the field



Saying beck water cold and clear

Will never clean your wound

There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland

Can make thee hale and sound



So turn, turn your stallion's head

Till 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 shadow passed him by

Below the hill 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 westmoreland

Who dwells by the winding mere



And it's weary by the Ullswater

And the misty brakefern way

Till through the cleft of the Kirkstane pass

The winding water lay



He said Lie down my brindled hound

And rest ye my good gray hawk

And thee my stead may graze thy fill

For I must dsmount and walk



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

Till his steed was by his side

High overhead the gray hawk flew

And swiftly he did ride



Saying Course well me brindled hound

And fetch me the jet-black mare

Stoop and strike me good gray hawk

And bring me the maiden fair

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