Well, here I am, 10 years later, answering my own request. I finally tracked down Vin himself and he very graciously provided the requested lyric repair. I really love this song, so I am very happy to finally be able to provide it here.

Properly titled:

^^ THE HERMIT OF ESKDALESIDE

Twas in and about the May Day time when the wild flowers sweetly lie
When the primrose decks the sweet shaw copse and the lark salutes the sky
That Piercy, Bruce, and Allatson and Herberts bright and gay,
From their proud mountain homes went forth to spend a hunting day.

And they have left fair Kildale Hall and Skelton's castle fair
The stately walls of Guisborough, to seek the wild boar's lair
They lighted nigh on Eskdaleside upon the fen so brown
They lighted where the wild boar lay, the dread of Whitby town.

The boar, the boar, the brindled boar, Lord Piercy loudly cried
There's a silver dirk to him who's pierced the boar of Eskdaleside
And in that ancient forest's green beside the gnarled oak
The hermit meek of Eskdaleside, his lone communings took.

Twas there the boar, all red with gore burst in through open stead
Wounded and torn, it staggered on, and fell before him dead
Back to your home, proud Percy back, far hence your footsteps trace
"Herbert, de Bruce" how dare you thus pollute this sacred place.

Thou shaven priest how dare you halt the heir to Piercy's hall
How dare you stop my fleet stag hounds and keep my prey in thrall
Then Piercy with his good broad sword that could so sharply wound
He smote the hermit on the brow into a deathly wound.

To Caedman Lord of Streoneshalh this horrid outrage spread
That the holy monk of Eskdaleside of his wounds was nigh well dead
Swiftly the abbot did command the youths of Eskdaleside
Yea, by my holy mother church, what may this deed betide.

What e'er this pious hermit asks, your punishment shall be.
Yea, by my soul, though he should ask your doom o' the gallows tree.
Alas my lord, the hermit cried, revenge is not of mine
To extend our holy church's bound is a nobler aim of thine.

I charge these youths on Ascension eve, as penance for their crime,
Of twigs within the forest take and at early morning time
To raise on Whitby's yellow shore a hedge that still must stand
Three tides nor oceans' mighty waves shall wash it from the sand.

The hunting horn that from this day their deed of shame shall sound
And all their heirs this tribute give, til times remotest bound.
His eyes grew dim, his voice grew faint, farewell thou smiling shores
Sweet Esk', my Esk', I loved thee well, one cry and all is o'er.

Message from P & C Vin Garbutt:
This song is the story of the origin of the custom called "The Penny Hedge". This custom is carried out to this day on the beach at Whitby, North Yorkshire, England every Ascension Eve. The descendants of the three errant knights were instructed by the abbot of Whitby to cut twigs using a pen knife (penny) and build a hedge that would withstand three tides. If they failed to do this or the hedge collapsed their lands would be forfeited to Whitby Abbey.