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 wound 

There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and sound

(OR: There's none but the Maid of the Winding Mere...)

(So course well, my brindled hounds, and fetch me the mountain hare)

(Who's coat is as green as the West water or 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 Westmereland can save thy dear life's

blood.)

So turn, turn your stallion's head 'til 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 his shadow passed him by 

Below the hills 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 Westmorland that dwells by the winding mere."

("Then fly free your good grey hawk to gather the goldenrod)

(And face your horse into the clouds above yon gay green wood.") 

And it's weary by the Ullswater and the misty brake fern way 

Til through the cleft in the Kirkstane Pass the winding water lay 

He said "Lie down, my brindled hound and rest ye, 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 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 born 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 til his steed was by his side 

High overhead the grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride 

Saying "Course well, my brindled hound, and fetch me the jet black mare 

Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, and bring me the maiden fair" 

She said "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword. Lay down thy rowan shield 

For I see by the briney blood that flows you've been wounded in the field." 

And she stood in a gown of the 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

And she said "Ride with your brindled hound at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand 

There's none can harm the knight who's lain with the Witch of the Westmorland."