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Lyrics

Oh it's of a lord in the north country
He courted a lady gay
As they were riding side by side
A wager she did lay

"Oh I'll wager you five hundred pound
Five hundred pound to one
That a maid I will go to the merry greenwood
And a maid I will return."

Lyrics continue below...

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So there she sat in her mother's bower garden
There she made her moan
Saying, "Should I go to the Broomfield Hill
Or should I stay at home?"

Then up and spake this witch woman
As she sat on a log
Saying, "You shall go to the Broomfield Hill
And a maid you shall come home."

"Oh when you get to the Broomfield Hill
You'll find your love asleep
With his hawk, his hound, and his silk and satin gown
And his ribbons hanging down to his feet."

"And pick the blossom from off the broom
The blossom that smells so sweet
And lay some down at the crown of his head
And more at the sole of his feet."

So she's away to the Broomfield Hill
And she's found her love asleep
With his hawk, his hound, and his silk and satin gown
And his ribbons hanging down to his feet

And she's picked a blossom from off the broom
The blossom that smells so sweet
And she's laid some down at the crown of his head
And more at the sole of his feet

And she's pulled off her diamond ring
And she's pressed it in his right hand
For to let him know when he'd wakened from his sleep
That his love had been there at his command

And when he woke out of his sleep
And the birds began to sing
Saying, "Awake, awake, awake master
Your true love's been and gone."

"Oh where were you, me gay goshawk?
And where were you, me steed?
And where were you, me good greyhound?
Why did you not waken me?"

"Oh I clapped with my wings, master
And bold your bells I rang
Crying, waken, waken, waken master
Before this lady ran."

"And I stamped with my foot, master
And I shook me bridle till it rang
But nothing at all would waken you
Till she had been and gone."

"So haste ye, haste ye, me good white steed
To come where she may be
Or all the birds of the Broomfield Hill
Shall eat their fill of thee."

"Oh you need not waste your good white steed
By racing to her home
For no bird flies faster through the wood
Than she fled through the broom."

Writer(s): MARTIN CARTHY, TRADITIONAL, DAVE SWARBRICK

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