Neo - traditional folk
Jonathan Patrick Moore 2006
On a cold and misty evening, while my lord was out-a-riding,|
He thought he heard the baying, of some hounds beyond the ridge,
And as his pace-a-quickened, the mist it swirled and thickened,
His horse it went to neighing , as they crossed Cadover Bridge.
On Wigmore Down-a-climbing, the wind it was a-whistling,
But still the sound of baying, drew closer through the fog.
The Master spurring on a-pace, as soaking wind drove in his face,
A shadow voice kept saying, “You can't out run the dogs.”
Oh beware, be you rich or poor,
Of the Wisht hounds roaming the southern moor,
The sinner venturing out alone,
Should best avoid the Dewerstone.
Dewer had him in his grip, he knew that with one fatal slip
As both approached the craggy lip, their fate would soon be sealed
They never saw the granite ledge and so they rode hard off the edge,
To meet their maker in a place where every heart’s revealed.
On the morrow early rising, chanced on a grisly sighting,
A horse and rider lying, at the foot of Dewerstone,
And after drawing closer, I saw it was my master,
E're with the sun yet shining my world was overthrown.
Jonathan Patrick Moore C 2006