Poor tree!
That could have come from the little brat in the Infancy Gospels or the old carol, The Bitter Withy, in which Jesus drowns three boys and curses willow trees.
As it fell out on a bright holiday
Small hail from the sky did fall;
Our Saviour asked his mother dear
If he might go and play at ball.
“At ball? At ball? My own dear son?
It's time that you was gone,
But don't let me hear of any doings
Tonight when you return.”
So up the hill and down the hill
Our sweet young Saviour ran
Until he met three rich lords',
“Good morning to each one.”
“Good morn, good morn, good morn,” said they,
“Good morning,” then said he,
“And which of you three rich young lords
Will play at ball with me?”
“We are all lords' and ladies' sons
Born in a bower and hall,
And you are nothing but a poor maid's child
Born in an ox's stall.”
Sweet Jesus turned him round about,
He did neither laugh nor smile,
But the tears came trickling from his eyes
Like water from the sky.
“If you're all lords' and ladies' sons
Born in your bower and hall,
I'll make you believe in your latter end
I'm an angel above you all”
So he made him a bridge of the beams of the sun
And over the water ran he;
The rich young lords chased after him
And drowned they were all three.
So up the hill and down the hill
Three rich young mothers ran
Saying, “Mary mild, fetch home your child
For ours he's drowned each one.”
Then Mary mild, she took her child
And laid him across her knee
And with a handful of withy twigs
She gave him slashes three.
“Oh bitter withy, oh bitter withy
You've caused me to smart.
And the withy shall be the very first tree
To perish at the heart.”
