“She’s off and away to the lonely kirk
To keep a cursèd tryst;
She’s taken thy son, to be bound for aye
A slave to the wan White Christ.”
The king he rides by holt and heath,
The witch goes on before,
By the carven stone on the moorland lone
Where the blood ran down of yore.
Oh, wan was the glint of the misty moon
In the brimming burn, and shrill
The wind it wailed in the lean thorn-trees
That crouch upon the hill.
“The font is dight, the taper bright,
I hear the sound of prayer—
Lest I be banned with bell and book
I dare not enter there.”
All lily-white the fair queen stood—
In strode the angry king—
“Thy God is thine, but my son is mine,
And I will not have this thing!”
White as a lily-flower, the queen
Fell down upon her knee—
“Have pity, have pity, thou cruel king,
On the souls of mine and me!”
The pale priest stood before the rood,
His look was proud and grim—
“Stand back, unshriven! the King of Heaven
Doth claim the babe for Him!”
Most like the wail of a winter gale
The grisly witch laughed loud—
“The christening-robes are white enow
To serve as a goodly shroud!”
She’s witched his arm, she’s witched his heart,
She’s witched his blade so true,
She’s cast the glamour o’er his eyes,
The deadly deed to do.
The king, he drew his trusty brand,
And clove him to the chin—
“Short shrift at least is thine, proud priest,
Thy God His grace to win!”