| Mother, I am worn by the day
|
| Chasing through the ice and wood
|
| Where William and I oft fetch and play
|
| Out of breath
|
| Mother, please don’t stand in the way
|
| Help these cottons from my frame
|
| So red and frail am I, I could sway
|
| To my death
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Trouble’s in your eye
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| You bite the hand that feeds and crow
|
| So count here naked in the snow
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Mother, I must go to my bed
|
| Remove your windy barn door hands
|
| These stains are of a hare that I’ve bled
|
| On my sword
|
| Mother, I have reasoned and pled
|
| Nag your William, spoilt and late
|
| For this is not the shade of his red
|
| By my word
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Trouble’s in your eye
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| You bite the hand that feeds and crow
|
| So count here naked in the snow
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Trouble’s in your eye
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| You bite the hand that feeds and crow
|
| So count here naked in the snow
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Mother, shall I tender a stab
|
| To why a woman births and knits
|
| Yet keeps not her dear William from the drab
|
| Of the frost?
|
| Mother, please don’t play to his jab
|
| Surely he’ll return to grace you
|
| While your firstborn’s cold as a slab
|
| On your cross
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| Trouble’s in your eye
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| You bite the hand that feeds and crow
|
| So count here naked in the snow
|
| Tell not thorn nor lie
|
| Speak to me o murder child
|
| After the spring you shall find him
|
| After the snow leaves the hill
|
| After the spring you shall find him
|
| 'Til then there’s no grave to fill
|
| After the spring you shall find him
|
| After the snow leaves the hill
|
| After the spring you shall find him
|
| 'Til then there’s no grave to fill |