Withy Oxen

As I fell out on a bright holiday Small hail from the sky did fall Our Saviour asked his mother dear If he might go and play at ball "At ball? At ball? My own dear son? It's time that you were gone And don't let me hear any mischief At night when you come home."

So it's up the hill, and down the hill Our sweet young Saviour run Until he met three rich young lords "Good morning" to each one "Good morn", "good morn", "good morn" Said they, "Good morning" then said He "And which one of you three rich young lords Will play at the ball with me?"

"Ah, we're all lords' and ladies' sons Born in a bower and hall And you are nought but a poor maid's child Born in an ox's stall"

"If I am nought but a poor maid's child Born in a ox's stall I'll make you believe at your latter end I'm an angel above you all" So he made a bridge of beams of the sun And over the river ran he And after him ran these rich young lords And drowned they all three