We vassals of time have a measured score
And the Banshee wails, when we’re counted for,
To her Headless Coachman and his team of four
Black stallions with head plumes, in deference to lore.
They ride on the wind from out of the night,
A fearsome dark turnout, as these lines recite.
As they break into gallop and the traces draw tight
Their wide nostrils flare like mad dragons in fight.
The blustery storm or a carriage in flight
With coach wheels a’rumbling? Though still out of sight,
It sounds closer each hearing, as thunderclaps might,
To summon the fated - by grisly Invite.
One wild night Her Coachman will rap at your door,
And the windows will shake and the nor’wind will roar
And that cry to the doomed will shriek out once more;
That’s the wail of the Banshee, that none dare ignore.
Inspired by Irish folklore, as told by mother.