This one night, this one night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candlelight,
And Christ receive thy soul.

When thou from hence away hast passed,
Every night and all,
To Whinny-moor thou com’st at last,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If ever thou gavest hose and shoes,
Every night and all,
Sit thee down and put them on,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If hose and shoes thou never gav’st none,
Every night and all,
The gorse will scratch thee to the bone,
And Christ receive thy soul.

From Whinny-moor whence thou may’st pass,
Every night and all,
To Bridge of Dread thou com’st at last,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If ever thou gav’st silver and gold,
Every night and all,
At Bridge of Dread thou’lt find foothold,
And Christ receive thy soul.

But if silver and gold thou never gav’st none,
Every night and all,
Down thou tumblest to Hell’s flame,
And Christ receive thy soul.

From Bridge of Dread whence thou may’st pass,
Every night and all,
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If ever thou gav’st meat or drink,
Every night and all,
The fire shall never make thee shrink,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If meat or drink thou never gav’st none,
Every night and all,
The fire will burn thee to the bone,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If ever thou gav’st man or woman good day,
Every night and all,
The fire will never make thee flay,
And Christ receive thy soul.

If man or woman thou never gav’st good day,
Every night and all,
The fire will burn thee to the clay,
And Christ receive thy soul.

This one night, this one night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candlelight,
And Christ receive thy soul.

The winds out of the west land blow,
My friends have breathed them there;
Warm with the blood of lads I know
Comes east the sighing air.

It fanned their temples, filled their lungs,
Scattered their forelocks free;
My friends made words of it with tongues
That talk no more to me.

Their voices, dying as they fly,
Thick on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows' and my own.

Oh lads, at home I heard you plain,
But here your speech is still,
And down the sighing wind in vain
You hollo from the hill.

The wind and I, we both were there,
But neither long abode;
Now through the friendless world we fare
And sigh upon the road.