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I'll hang my harp on a willow tree,
I'm off to the war again;
My peaceful home holds no charms for me,
Nor the battle field no pain.
The lady I love she will soon be a bride,
With a diadem on her brow;
O, why did she flatter my boyish pride,
She's going to leave me now.
She took me away from my warlike lord,
She gave me a silken suit;
I thought no more of my master's sword,
But played with my lady's lute.
She seemed to think me a boy above,
Her pages of low degree;
But if I had loved with a boyish love,
It would have been better for me.
I'll hide in my breast every selfish care,
I'll flush my pale cheeks with wine;
And when smiles await the bridal pair,
I'll hasten to give them mine;
I'll laugh and I'll sing though my heart may bleed,
I'll walk in the festive train;
And if I survive it, I'll mount my steed,
And off to the war again.
One golden tress of her hair I'll twine
In my helmet's sable plume;,
Then on the fields of Palestine
I'll seek an early doom.
And if by the Saracen's hand I fall
'Midst the noble and the brave,
A tear from the lady I love is all
I'll ask for a warrior's grave.
This variant was recorded by Pamela Morgan of Grand Falls, NL, on her third solo album (Ancestral Songs, trk#9, ©2006 Pamela Morgan Publishing, a division of Amber Music, Topsail, NL).
