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Description
Well I did promise a while back that I would do an old English spanking carol. So here it is.
It's a fairly unpleasant story featuring Jesus that "explains" why the willow (withy) tree dies from the inside out. We have to imagine that whoever wrote it had some other agenda. It's been banned in British schools btw. :)
When A. L. Lloyd recorded this song in the 1950s he wrote some interesting sleeve notes about it, which you can read here: http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/lloyd/songs/thebitterwithy.html
(Apologies, it doesn't seem possible to make clickable links to external sites in song descriptions.)
The song is traditional but its setting here certainly isn't. For that I have to thank Dick who did ALL the instrumentation, arrangement and mixing. He has a very special talent and as always I feel blessed to be on the receiving end of it.
THANK YOU Dick.
It's a fairly unpleasant story featuring Jesus that "explains" why the willow (withy) tree dies from the inside out. We have to imagine that whoever wrote it had some other agenda. It's been banned in British schools btw. :)
When A. L. Lloyd recorded this song in the 1950s he wrote some interesting sleeve notes about it, which you can read here: http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/lloyd/songs/thebitterwithy.html
(Apologies, it doesn't seem possible to make clickable links to external sites in song descriptions.)
The song is traditional but its setting here certainly isn't. For that I have to thank Dick who did ALL the instrumentation, arrangement and mixing. He has a very special talent and as always I feel blessed to be on the receiving end of it.
THANK YOU Dick.
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Lyrics
And here are the lyrics - look away now if you're easily offended and remember we don't even have a date for when this was written.
As it fell out on a bright holiday
Small hail from the sky did fall,
Our Saviour asked his mother dear
If he might play at ball.
“At ball, at ball my own dear son
It's time that you were gone
And don't let me hear of any misdoing
At night when you come home."
So it's up the hill and down the hill
To play with the ball ran he,
And there he asked three rich young lords,
“Come play at ball with me”
Oh, we are lords and ladies sons
Born in a bower and hall
And you are nothing but a poor maid's child
Born in an ox's stall.
“If you're all lords and ladies sons
Born in your bower and hall
I'll make you believe in your latter end,
For I'm an angel above you all”
So he made him a bridge of the beams of the sun
And over the water crossed he,
These rich young lords followed after him
Drowned they were all three.
So it's up the hill and down the hill
These rich lords' mothers run,
“Oh Mary mild, fetch home your child,
For ours he's drowned each one."
So Mary mild fetched home her child,
And laid him across her knee,
With a handful of green withy twigs
She gave him slashes three.
Oh withy, oh withy, oh bitter withy,
You've caused me to smart,
And the withy shall be the very first tree
That shall perish at the heart.
As it fell out on a bright holiday
Small hail from the sky did fall,
Our Saviour asked his mother dear
If he might play at ball.
“At ball, at ball my own dear son
It's time that you were gone
And don't let me hear of any misdoing
At night when you come home."
So it's up the hill and down the hill
To play with the ball ran he,
And there he asked three rich young lords,
“Come play at ball with me”
Oh, we are lords and ladies sons
Born in a bower and hall
And you are nothing but a poor maid's child
Born in an ox's stall.
“If you're all lords and ladies sons
Born in your bower and hall
I'll make you believe in your latter end,
For I'm an angel above you all”
So he made him a bridge of the beams of the sun
And over the water crossed he,
These rich young lords followed after him
Drowned they were all three.
So it's up the hill and down the hill
These rich lords' mothers run,
“Oh Mary mild, fetch home your child,
For ours he's drowned each one."
So Mary mild fetched home her child,
And laid him across her knee,
With a handful of green withy twigs
She gave him slashes three.
Oh withy, oh withy, oh bitter withy,
You've caused me to smart,
And the withy shall be the very first tree
That shall perish at the heart.
Vic Holman
great job Rebsie & Dick!
for a holiday song it sure has a cool african beat bordering on reggae. brilliant.
boy, this sure is cool.