The Ballad Of Banshee

Sleepy way, in a sleepy way;

In sleepy ways, it hides,

Among the hills of Ireland;

For the lives that confide.

T'was the castle of Banshee,

The iron fence that stood;

Among the woodland spree,

Confining all that should.

A wanderer lost, a lover bereft,

Or a sailor lost at the main;

Knocked the tower at the door

And begged for one night's bed: quite plain.

Creaked the door that turned about

And squeaked the rivets at the hinge.

A man should have lost to doubt

That too, when beguiling encounters infringe.

Howled the ghoul, sung terror itself.

And the fear that rode apace,

Was slower than herself,

To rid the victim of his face.

T'was a bright way, brightly ways.

In the sprightly hills that power shall assuage:

The shunted glimpses of Ireland;

And then, bids a figure without a visage.