Young man came from hunting faint and weary
What does ail my love, my dearie?
O mother dear, let my bed be made
For I feel the gripe of the woody nightshade

Lie low, sweet randall
Come all you young men that do eat full well
And them that sups right merry
'Tis far better, I entreat, to eat toads for your meat
Than to eat of the wild, wild berry

This young man, well, he died fair soon
By the light of the hunters' moon
'Twas not by bolt, nor yet by blade
But the leaves and the berries of the woody nightshade

This lord's false love, well, they hanged her high
For 'twas by her deeds that her lord should die
Within her locks they entwined a braid
Of the leaves and the berries of the woody nightshade