When darkness blots the golden sun,
and chill winds blow of winter just begun.
When arrows fly and shade the light,
and the soldiers battle till dark of night.
Then you shall hear the wail of the Banshee.
The hills will echo with the sounds of the dead,
and the rivers will run with blood so red.
With each sword's clash and axe's swing,
and the song of death the ravens do sing.
In this you shall hear the wail of the Banshee.
At battle's end all the dead are counted,
The survivors have fled on horses mounted.
And the victor's flag is raised to the sun,
with the bittersweet joy of a battle won.
and only in fading echos do you hear the wail of the Banshee.
© 2000 By Dave Anhorn
