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