Archie Fisher 2001
When Fisher died in 2025, Amy Davenport told Thank Goodnes It’s Folk about meeting him at a festival and upon hearing her sing in a pub and learning that she sang Witch of the West-mer-lands, he told her he’d written a sequel and would love her help bringing it into the world. They exchanged emails for the finishing touches of the song.
Amy Davenport: https://gavinandamydavenport.bandcamp.com/track/the-return
https://gavinandamydavenport.bandcamp.com/track/the-return
Long was the hour for the valiant knight That would ne’er be sick or slain. Lonely the bower in the candlelight With neither kith nor kin. Stormclouds over the full moon raced As we swung to the dapple grey. And man and horse to the westward faced On the eve of an All-Saints Day. And lo, ‘neath the long green grassy mound Lie the bones of his noble steed. Gone to their graves are his brindled hounds, That were never matched for speed. Freed to the wind were his grey hawk’s wings, Never to be seen again. Lost were the songs that the young men sing As they ride o’er the plain. The rowan shield burned on his breast As the old man rode again. Over the rocky kirkstan crest In the howling wind and rain. Weary the step of his garron’s stride As they slowly wended down To the banks of the winding waterside All under a paley moon Cold was the crack of the raven’s cry That echoed from the fell. Fierce were the flames of the morning sky As the burning gates of Hell. Over his breast on the mantle white The rowan shield burned red. And, there in the rays of the dawning light, The berries burst and bled. “Oh, where is your hawk and your brindled hounds?” Came the screeching houlet’s call. “Gone to the dank and the wormy ground, That will ay consume us all. Where is the maid of the jet black mare who held me fast in sleep?” “Under the long dark winding mere, She rests in the watery deep.” He’s laid his hand on his hunting horn And, with his dying breath, Has blown a blast to the blazing morn That would route the Angel of Death. High in the cusp of the starry night He heard his grey hawk mew. As out of the mist came morning light, His ghostly grey hounds flew. He has gathered a snatch of the goldenrod All withered in the wood And scattered it over the water’s brim Where his ghostly greyhounds stood. Flecked was the coat of the lithe black mare That rose from the watery deep. White were the locks of the maiden’s hair, And her brown eyes heavy with sleep. “Waily, waily my noble lord, Who wakes me from my rest. There’s none can heal the wounds of time That lie bloody on your breast. Climb from your silvered saddle down And swing to my back astride. Gather your hawk and your brindled hounds And together we will ride.” His saddlecloth was the velvet blue Trimmed round with a silver chain. He’s kissed her pale lips aince and twice, Aye, and three times round again. And over the lake with his hounds at heel And his good grey hawk in hand, Rode the knight of the blood-red rowan shield And the witch of the West-mer-land.