Young man came from hunting faint and weary
What is that my Lord, my deary?
Oh, brother dear, let my bed be made
Right here, ripe of the woody nightshade
Men need a man would die as soon
Out of the light of a mage's moon
It's not by bone, but yet by blade
Can break the magic that the devil made
And it's not by fire, but what's forged in flame
Can drown the sorrows of a huntsman's pain
This young man he died fair soon
By the light of the hunters' moon
'Twas not by bone, nor yet by blade
Of the berries of the woody nightshade
Oh father dear thy heavy safe
From the path that the devil made
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