love this song Young man came from hunting faint and weary What does ail my lord, my dearie? O brother dear, let my bed be made For I feel the gripe of the woody nightshade Many a man would die as soon Out of the light of a mages moon It's not by bone, but yet by blade Can break the magic that the devil made It's not by fire though it's forged in flame Can drown the sorrow of a huntsman's pain This young man, he die fair soon By the light of the hunters moon 'T was not by bolt, nor yet by blade Or the berries of the woody nightshade O father dear, I have this ail From the par that the devil made
