Pale was the wounded Knight

That bore the rowan shield

Loud and cruel were the ravens' cries

As they feasted on the field



Saying beck water cold and clear

Will never clean your wound

There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland

Can make thee hale and sound



So turn, turn your stallion's head

Till his red mane flies in the wind

And the rider of the moon goes by

And the bright star falls behind



And clear was the paley moon

When shadow passed him by

Below the hill were the brightest stars

When he heard the owlet cry



Saying Why do you ride this way

And wherefore came you here?

I seek the witch of the westmoreland 

Who dwells by the winding mere



And it's weary by the Ullswater

And the misty brakefern way

Till through the cleft of the Kirkstane pass

The winding water lay



He said Lie down my brindled hound

And rest ye my good gray 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  ere the sun will rise this morn

Ye will serve me best of all



And it's down to the water's brim

He's borne the rowan shield

And the goldenrod he has cast in

To see what the lake might yield



And wet rose she from the lake

And fast and fleet went she

One half the form of a maiden fair

With a jet-black mare's body



And loud long and shrill he blew

Till his steed was by his side

High overhead the gray hawk flew

And swiftly he did ride



Saying Course well me brindled hound

And fetch me the jet-black mare

Stoop and strike me good gray hawk

And bring me the maiden fair



She said Pray sheath thy silvery sword

Lay down thy rowan shield

For I see by the briny blood that flows

You've been wounded in the field



And she stood in a gown of a velvet blue

Bound round with a silver chain

And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice

And three times round again



And she's bound his wounds with the goldenrod

Full fast in her arms he lay

And he has risen hale and sound

With the sun high in the day



She said Ride with your brindled hound at heel

And your good gray hawk in hand

There's none can harm the knight who's lain

With the Witch of the Westmoreland