Banshee

A tribute to the Banshee of Ireland.

Beyond the edge of a hill is a wretch, 

Roamin' the lowlands as a soul lorn, 

Where wutherin' winds blow mightily, 

As rain pours in drenches of swales.

In the woodlands shadin' meadows, 

Listen to a wail beseechin' till a morn,

Dispersin' into a night after a passin', 

And hidden in the depth of the dales.

Thus condemn'd in walls of death, 

Within a dreadful world of isolation,

And a weary woman of the barrows, 

In the omens and sins of impurity.

Frozen in time and left to wander, 

In the gloomy shadows of fixation,

Loath'd and forsaken by the keener, 

Hauntin' nights of fear and obscurity.

Every night from a home by a brine, 

Ye hear beyond the waters a lament,

And from the old wealds she is nigh, 

In the boughs with her ghastly face.

Whey-fac'd bluish skin and long hair, 

Driftin' in nights of a glint in ascent,

And ye look slowly at her odd guise, 

For she is no more the blurry trace.

A harbinger of death in a grey cloak, 

Approachin' then beyond the garths,

As children chunter'd the rigmaroles, 

Warnin' of the hoary entity that soars.

Speakin' of the banshee that spooks,

In whistlin' nights and onto the firths,

With the legend of a wanderin' wraith, 

Wendin' amidst a loud cry that roars.