Don't fall in love, Under the old oak tree, At the crossroads on the moor. I was hanged there winter's morn, With no one about, Save my executioner and the dawn.
Old rope was used, How it bit my neck, With a sack o'er my head. I waited patiently, Not saying a word, Waiting 'til I was dead.
I was sat upon a midnight mare, Us both in gallows garb. I heard her snort the frosted air, And stamp her hoof, In the frozen mud. So cold, I shivered, With frozen blood.
'Til my pious friend, He cried 'Walk on!', And I was left to swing. Denied my last words, - who would listen save the birds? I died from the old oak tree.
Don't fall in love, Under the old oak tree, At the crossroads on the moor. 'Tis a cursed place, Blessed by foulest grace, Where I do choke once more.