A Real Keener

Auguries of doom take different forms

Banshees are surely the loudest of them

Cries from these creatures can freeze any blood

Death is the theme of their terrible song

Eire is crowded with spirits and ghosts

Fairies and sprites and dour, digging trolls

Ghosts are common as flies on that green isle

Haunting ground hallowed and profane alike

It is to this throng that banshees belong

Just to them, though, belongs a cry so cold

Keening sharp enough to cut a stout heart

Lamenting a death to come is their art

Mortal mourners keen in their tearful turn

None can set teeth on edge like the Banshee

Over field and furrow she swiftly flies

Perhaps, come Samhain, you will see her form

Queen of the folk of the forgotten hills

Retired to their barrows are old gods

Set free from hers is the wailing Banshee

Tuatha Dé Danann are her fair kin

Under the earth, they dream of past glory

Voyage she does from their world to our own

Woe unto any who hear her mad song

Xenolithic is she, midst younger stone

Your dirge, I hope, she will not sing too soon

Zounds, there is terror in her eldritch voice!