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