Long was the hour for the valiant knight that would ne'er be sick or slain

Lonely the bower in the candlelight, with neither kith nor kin

Storm clouds over the full moon raced as he swung to the dapple grey

And man and horse to the westward faced on the eve of an All Saints’ Day

And lo ‘neath the long green grassy mound lie the bones of his noble steed

Gone to their graves are his brindled hounds that were never matched for speed

Freed to the wind were his grey hawk's wings, never to be seen again

Lost were the songs that the young men sing, as they ride o'er the plain

The rowan shield burned on his breast as the old man rode again

Over the rocky Kirkstane Crest in the howling wind and rain

Weary the step of his gar’n[?] stride as they slowly wended down to

The banks of the winding water's side, all under a palely moon

Cold was the crack of the raven's cry that echoed from the fell

Fierce were the flames of the morning sky as the burning gates of hell

Over his breast on the mantle white the rowan shield burned red

That bare in the rays of the dawning light, the berries burst and bled

“Oh where is your hawk and your brindled hounds?” Came the screeching owlet's call

“Gone to the dank and the wormy ground that will ‘ay consume us all

Where is the maid of the jet-black mare who held me fast in sleep?”

“Under the long dark winding mere, she rests in the watery deep”

He's laid his hand on his hunting horn, and with his dying breath

Has blown a blast to the blazing morn that would rout the Angel of Death

High in the cusp of the starry night he heard his grey hawk mew

As out of the misty morning light, his ghostly-grey hounds flew

He has gathered a snatch of the goldenrod, all withered in the wood

And scattered it over the water's brim where his ghostly-grey hounds stood

Flecked was the coat of the lithe black mare that rose from the watery deep

White were the locks of the maiden's hair and her brown eyes heavy with sleep

“Waily-waily my noble lord who wakes me from my rest

There's none can heal the wounds of time that lie bloody on your breast

Climb from your silvered saddle down and swing to my back astride

Gather your hawk and your brindled hounds, and together we will ride”

Her saddle cloth was the velvet blue, trimmed round with a silver chain

He’s kissed her pale lips once and twice, ‘ay and three times round again

And over the lake with his hounds at heel and his good grey hawk in hand

Rode the knight of the blood-red rowan shield and the Witch of the West-Mer-Land