For the witch is by, and she may not call.
(O the long, long days that my lass is waiting!)
Gold broom, with your flowers in bloom,
Wave,’ says the lad: ‘it is time for mating.’
“ ‘Lad, lad, in the witch’s wood,
There is no more hope when the spell is spoken;
Lost lad, is the sight so good
Of the empty place where your love has stood?
(O the long, long days that her heart has broken!)
Dead broom, be your bare pod’s doom