| Pale was the wounded knight
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| That bore the rowan shield,
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| And cruel were the raven’s cries
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| That feasted on the field,
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| Saying, «Beck water, cold and clear,
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| Will never clean your wound.
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| There’s none but the Maid of the Winding Mere
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| Can mak' thee hale and soond.»
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| «So course well, my brindled hounds,
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| And fetch me the mountain hare
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| Whose coat is as gray as the Wastwater
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| Or as white as the lily fair.»
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| Who said, «Green moss and heather bands
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| Will never staunch the flood.
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| There’s none but the Witch of the West-mer-lands
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| Can save thy dear life’s blood.»
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| «So turn, turn your stallion’s head
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| Till his red mane flies in the wind,
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| And the rider o' the moon goes by
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| And the bright star falls behind.»
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| And clear was the paley moon
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| When his shadow passed him by;
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| Below the hill was the brightest star
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| When he heard the houlet cry,
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| Saying, «Why do you ride this way
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| And wharfore cam' you here?»
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| «I seek the Witch of the West-mer-lands
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| That dwells by the Winding mere.»
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| «Then fly free your good grey hawk
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| To gather the goldenrod,
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| And face your horse intae the clouds
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| Above yon gay green wood.»
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| And it’s weary by the Ullswater
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| And the misty brake fern way
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| Till through the cleft o' the Kirkstane Pass
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| The winding water lay.
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| He said, «Lie down, my brindled hounds,
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| And rest, my good grey hawk,
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| And thee, my steed, may graze thy fill
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| For I must dismount and walk.
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| «But come when you hear my horn
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| And answer swift the call,
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| For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn
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| You may serve me best of all.»
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| And it’s down to the water’s brim
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| He’s borne the rowan shield,
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| And the goldenrod he has cast in
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| To see what the lake might yield.
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| And wet rose she from the lake
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| And fast and fleet gaed she,
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| One half the form of a maiden fair
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| With a jet-black mare’s body.
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| And loud, long and shrill he blew,
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| Till his steed was by his side;
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| High overhead his grey hawk flew
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| And swiftly he did ride,
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| Saying, «Course well, my brindled hounds,
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| And fetch me the jet-black mare!
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| Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk,
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| And bring me the maiden fair!»
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| She said, «Pray sheath thy silvery sword,
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| Lay down thy rowan shield.
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| For I see by the briny blood that flows
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| You’ve been wounded in the field.»
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| And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue,
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| Bound 'round with a silver chain,
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| She’s kissed his pale lips aince and twice
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| And three times 'round again.
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| She’s bound his wounds with the goldenrod,
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| Full fast in her arms he lay,
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| And he has risen, hale and sound,
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| With the sun high in the day.
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| She said, «Ride with your brindled hound at heel
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| And your good grey hawk in hand.
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| There’s nane can harm the knight who’s lain
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| With the Witch of the West-mer-land.» |