The Banshee

In the heart of dark green Irish moors,

Amongst the purple spread of heaths,

By the Great Sea, on its sandy shores,

Many have seen her in black sheaths.

Travellers of all realms have oft seen her,

Over their shoulders in the faintest fog,

Cloaked entirely in embroidered black fur,

As she glides over the wet country bog.

On windy wintry nights, her loud shriek,

Travels over leagues of wilting flowers,

As her red eyes, from the woods, peek,

Onto the highborn children in tall towers.

She lures them into the murky waters,

When from a slumber full of dreams,

She wakes these sons and daughters,

As she lets out a thousand screams.