Young man came from hunting faint, tired and weary

What does ail my Lord, my dearie?

Oh, brother dear, let my bed be made

For I feel the gripe of the woody nightshade

Men need a man would die as soon

Out of the light of a mage's moon

But it's not by bone, but yet by blade

Can break the magic that the devil made

And it's not my fire, but was forged in flame

Can drown the sorrows of a huntsman's pain

This young man he died fair soon

By the light of a hunter'e moon

'Twas not by bone, nor yet by blade

Of the berries of the woody nightshade

Oh Father dear lie and be safe

From the path that the devil made