Bellowhead - Broomfield Hill lyrics

A wager, a wager, five hundred pound and ten
That you'll not go to the Broomfield
Hill and a maid 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
My maidenhead is gone
But, if I chance to stay at home
Why then I am foresworn"

There's thirteen months all in one year
As I've heard people say
But the finest month year in all
The year is the merry, merry month of May

And up there spoke an old witch-woman
As she sat all alone
Saying "You shall go to the Broomfield hill
And a maid you shall return
For when you get to the Broomfield hill
You will find your lover asleep
With his silken gown all under his head
And a broom-cow at his feet
You take the blossom from off of the broom
The blossom that smells so sweet
And you lay it down all under his head
And more at the soles of his feet"
There's thirteen months all in one year
As I've heard people say
But the finest month year in all
The year is the merry, merry month of May

And when she got to the Broomfield hill
She found her lover asleep
With his hawk and his hound
And his silk satin
Gown and his ribbons all down to his feet
She's taken the blossom from
Off of the broom
The blossom that smells so sweet
And the more she lay it round about
The sounder he did sleep
She's taken the ribbon from off her finger
And laid it at his right hand
For to let him know when he awoke
That she'd been there at his command

There's thirteen months all in one year
As I've heard people say
But the finest month year in all
The year is the merry, merry month of May

"Oh, where were you my good grey steed
That I have loved so dear?
Why did you not stamp 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
There's 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 year in all
The year is the merry, merry month of May