Letra de Broomfield Hill - Martin Carthy

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."

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
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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."