Letras:Barbara Dickson. From the Beggar's Mantle.... Witch Of The Westmorelands.

Pale was the wounded knight, that bore the rowan shield
Loud and cruel were the raven's cries that feasted on the field
Saying "Beck water cold and clear will never clean your wounds
There's none but the Maid of the Winding Mere can make thee hale and soond"

"Then course well, my brindled hounds, and fetch me the mountain hare
Whose coat is as grey as the Wastwater and as white as the lily fair",
Who said "Green moss and heather bands will never staunch the flood
There's none but the Witch of the Westmorelands can save thy dear life's blood"

So turn, turn your Stallion's head 'till his grey mane flies in the wind
Till the rider of the moon goes by and the bright star falls behind
Clear was the paley moon when his shadow passed him by
Below the hill was the brightest star when he heard the houlet cry,

Saying "Why do you ride this way, and wherefore cam' you here?"
"I seek the Witch of the Westmorelands that dwells by the winding mere"
"Then fly free your good grey hawk to gather the golden rod
And face your horse intae the clouds above yon gay green wood"

Weary by Ullswater and the misty brake fern way
'Till through the cleft o' the Kirkstane Pass the winding water lay
He said "Lie down, my brindled hound and perch my good grey hawk
And thee, my steed, may graze thy fill for I must dismount and walk

But come when you hear my horn and answer swift the call
For I fear e'er the sun will rise this morn you will serve me best of all"
Down to the water's brim, he's borne the rowan shield
And the golden rod he has cast in to see what the lake might yield

And wet rose she from the lake, fast and fleet gaed she
One half the form of a maiden fair and the jet black mair's body
Long, loud and shrill he blew and his steed was by his side
High overhead his grey hawk flew and swiftly he did ride

Saying "Course well, my brindled hounds, and fetch me the jet black mair
Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, and bring me the maiden fair"
Who said "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword. Lay down thy rowan shield
For I see by the briny blood that flows you've been wounded in the field"

She stood in the gown of the velvet blue, bound 'round with a silver chain
She's kissed his pale lips aince and twice and three times 'round again
She's bound his wound with the golden rod, full fast in her arms he lay
And he has risen hale and soond wi' the sun high in the day

She said "Ride with your brindled hounds at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's kissed by the Witch of the Westmorland"