The wind upon the high topped hill of black, It's ashen bracken that sways, ne'er to lack,
That cold nightly dusk air that settles thar, Where fear and dread falls in footsteps of char,
Hooded shadows loftily flow with gusts, And can be seen to swoop and throw up dusts, Allus to travelers shock and concern,
Time knows of a wanderer who had yearn, To know of what those apparitions warn, So whence he saw dust be thrown he had sworn,
To ne'er halt fer dark moor dwelling evil, And to thrust thy boot in hasting sequel.
Fer that, history books read of his sight, And those nightmarish things he saw that night,
From those books I'll learnedly read to you, Let me tell of that thick fog he fell through,
His tired hands came down upon a dirt slope, Packed possessions strewn about in sad trope,
Though his vision concealed by densest mist, He found his way to stand without assist,
Thar in his moment of worry, the soul, Strained to the zenith to help him console,
No white clouds he did find uncorrupted, Cracking with thunder the sky erupted,
Bringing forth terrors to his folly eye, On what his petrified gaze came to lie,
I do not know, for the sky above is strange, And true tales confused minds can greatly change.