long was the hour for the valient
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 race
as he swung to the dapple grey
and man and horse do westward face
on the eve of an all saints day
and though neath the long green grassy mound
by the bones of his noble steed
gone to the graves are his brindled hounds
that were never matched for speed
free 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 kirkston pass
in the hoiwling wind and rain
weary the step of his garron stride
as they slowly winded down
to the banks of the winding waterside
under a paley moon
cold was the crack of the raven's cry
that echoed from the fell
and fierce were the flames of the morning sky
as the burning gates of hell
over his breast on a mantle white
the rowan shield burned red
but there in the rays of the morning light
the fairies burst and bled
where is your hawk and your brindled hounds
came the screeching owlet's call
gone to the dank and the wormy ground
that will aye consume us all
where is the maid of the jet black mair
who held me fast in sleep
under the long dark winding mere
she rests in the watery mead
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he's laid his hand on his hunting
horn
and with his dying breath
has blown a blast to the blazing morn
that would roud the angel of death
high on the cusp of the starry night
he heard his grey hawk mew
as out of the misty morning light
his ghostly greyhounds flew
he has gathered a snatch of the golden rod
all withered in the wood
and scattered it over the water's brim
where his ghostly greyhound stood
flacked was the coat of the live black mair
that rose from the watery deep
white were the locks of the maiden's hair
and her brown eyes heavy with sleep
wailey wailey 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 silver saddle down
and swing to my back astride
gather your hawk and your brindled hound
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
aye and three times round again
and over the lake with his hounds at heel
and his good grey hawk in hand
the knight of the blood red rowan shield
and the witch of the westmorland
Additional Information:
This song featured in Dave's Angle
on episode 36 of the Garden Sessions FREE fortnightly internet
radio show (or Podcast). The
song was written as a sequal to Witch Of the Westmorland
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