The Ghosts of the Moorlands

Darkness veils the moorlands o'er,

go not at dusk from home,

for, prowling on two legs and creeping on four

ghouls and hobgoblins 'gin roam.

Gaunt, black arms and clutching hands rise

out from the dark mist; yon crag

conceals grinning features with gleamin eyes,

grey shaggy - a hoary hag.

Is't gone? Grey mists o'er the sluggish brook

hang like a veil that's spun

by spectre hands; yonder black smoke

rises up, now 'tis gone.

No light, no star. Dark shadows we see

of sprectres, 'tis naught, yet 'tis here.

Hark now! ghostly voices, what can it be?

You can't tell, is't far, is't near?

Like a baby crying, a whispered tone,

a rustling, a crackling, no more,

and sometimes a cry of terror, a groan

from some wretch a-drowning i'th' moor.