Lyrics

Oh it’s of a night in the north country
He courted a lady gay 

As they were riding side by side 

A wager she did lay

Oh I wager you five hundred pound

Five hundred pound to one
That a maid I will go to the merry green wood
And a maid you’ll not come home return

So there she sat in her mother’s bower door
And there she made a moan 

Saying,should I go to the Broomfield Hill

Or should I stay at home

Then up and spake this witch woman
As she sat all alone 
Saying,
You shall go to the Broomfield Hill
And a maid you shall come home

For when you get to the Broomfield Hill
You’ll find your love asleep
With his hawk, his hound and his silken satin gown

And his ribbons hanging down to his feet

You’ll pull the blossom from off that broom

The blossom that smells so sweet 

And lay some down at the crown of his head

And more at the sole of his feet



So she’s away to the Broomfield Hill

And she’s found her love asleep

With his hawk, his hound and his silken satin gown

And his ribbons hanging down to his feet

And she’s pulled a blossom from off the broom

The blossom that smells so sweet

And she’s laid some down at the crown of his head

And more at the sole of his feet

And she’s pulled off her diamond ring

And she’s pressed it in his right hand

For to let him know when he wakened from his sleep

That his love had been there at his command

And when he woke out of his sleep

When the birds began to sing

Cried, Awake, awake, awake, master

Your true love’s been and gone

Oh where were you, my gay goshawk

And where were you, my steed
And where were you, my good greyhound

Why did you not waken me

Oh I flapped with my wings master

And all my bells I rang
B
ut nothing at all would waken you

Before this lady ran

And I stamped with my foot, master

And I shook my bridle till it rang

But nothing at all would waken you

Till she had been and gone

So haste ye, haste ye, my good white steed

To come where she may be

Or all the birds at the Broomfield Hill

Shall eat their fill of thee

Oh you need not waste your good white steed

By racing to her home

For no bird flies faster through the wood

Than she fled through the broom