Broomfield Hill

A wager, a wager, five hundred pound and ten

That you'll not go to the Broomfield Hill and no maiden return again

And oh she cried, and oh she sighed, and oh she made her moan

Saying, shall I go to the Broomfield Hill or shall I stay at home?

For if I go to the Broomfield Hill then my maidenhead is gone

But if I chance to stay at home, why then I am forsworn

There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say

But the finest month in all the year is the very merry month of May

Up there spoke an old witch-woman as she sat all alone

Saying, you shall go to the Broomfield

Hill and no maid you shall return

For when you get to the Broomfield Hill you will find your love asleep

With his hawk in his hand and his silk satin gown

And there's ribbons all down to his feet

He takes the blossom from off of the

Broom, the blossom that smells so sweet

And he lay it down all under his head and all on the soles of his feet

There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say

But the finest month in all the year is the very merry month of May

That's when she got to the Broomfield Hill, she found her lover asleep

With his hawk in his hand and his silk satin gown

And there's ribbons all down to his feet

She's taken the blossom from off of the

Broom and the blossom that smells so sweet

And the more she lay it round about, the sounder he did sleep

She's taken the ring from off of her

Finger and laid it at his right hand

For to let him know when he awoke that

She had been there at his command

There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say

But the finest month in all the year is the very merry month of May

Oh where were you, my good grey steed that I have loved so dear?

Why did you not stand and waken me when there was a maiden here?

Oh I stamped with my feet, master, and all my bells I rang

But there was nothing could waken you 'til she had been and gone

Oh haste, haste, my good grey steed, for to come where she may be

Or all the birds in the Broomfield Hill will eat their fill of thee

Oh you need not break your good grey steed by racing to her home

No bird flies faster through the wood than she flew through the broom

There's thirteen months all in one year, as I've heard people say

But the finest month in all the year is the very merry month of May