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A wager, a wager, five hundred pound and ten |
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That you'll not go to the Broomfield Hill and a maid return again |
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And oh she cried, and oh she sighed, and oh she made her moan |
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Saying "shall I go to the Broomfield Hill or shall I stay at home? |
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"For if I go to the Broomfield Hill, my maidenhead is gone |
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"But if I chance to stay at home, why then I am foresworn." |
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There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say |
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But the finest month in all the year is the very, merry month of May |
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And up there spoke an old witch-woman, as she sits all alone |
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Saying, "You shall go to the Broomfield hill and a maid you shall return |
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"For when you get to the Broomfield Hill, you will find your lover asleep |
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"With his silken gown all under his head and a broom-cow at his feet |
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"You take the blossom from off of the broom, the blossom that smells so sweet |
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"And you lay it down all under his head and more at the soles of his feet" |
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There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say |
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But the finest month in all the year is the very, merry month of May |
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Instrumental |
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And when she got to the Broomfield Hill, she found her lover asleep |
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With his hawk and his hound and his silk satin gown and his ribbons all down to his feet |
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She's taken the blossom from off of the broom, the blossom that smells so sweet |
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And the more she lay it round about, the sounder he did sleep |
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She's taken the ribbon from off her finger and laid it at his right hand |
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For to let him know when he awoke that she'd been there at his command |
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There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say |
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But the finest month in all the year is the very, merry month of May |
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"Oh where were you my good grey steed, that I have loved so dear? |
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"Why did you not stamp and waken me when there was a maiden here?" |
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"Oh I stamped with my feet, master, and all my bells I rang |
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"But there was nothing could waken you til she had been and gone" |
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"Oh haste, haste, my good grey steed, for to come where she may be |
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"Or all the birds in the Broomfield Hill will eat their fill of thee." |
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"Oh you need not break your good grey steed by racing to her home |
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"There's no bird flies faster through the wood than she flew through the broom" |
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Instrumental |
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There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say |
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But the finest month in all the year is the very, merry month of May |
