By Robin Williamson



Robin Williamson: Chanter, bironne, chinese flute, jew's harp, bazooki, gong and vocal.



In the third part of the year

when men begin to gather fuel against the

coming cold

hear hoover ring hard on frosty ground

begins our song



for centuries we lived alone high on the moors

herding the deer for milk and cheese for leather

and horn

humans came seldom nigh

for we with our spells held them at bay

and they with gifts of wine and grain did

honour us



returning at evening from the great mountains

out red hoods ring with bells lightly we run

until before our own green hill

there we did stand



she is stolen 

she is snatched away

through watery meads straying our lovely

daughter

she of the wild eyes

she of the wild hair

snatched up to the saddle of the lord of Weir

who has his castle high upon a crag

a league away



upon the horse of air at once we rode

to where Weir's castle lifts like a crippled claw

into the moon

and taking form of minstrels brightly clad

we paced upon white ponies to the gate 

and rang thereon

"we come to sing unto my lord of Weir

a merry song."



into his sorry hall we stepped

where was our daughter bound near his chair

"come play a measure!"

"sir at once we will!"

and we began to sing and play

to lightly dance in rings and faster turn

no man within that hall could keep his seat

but needs must dance and leap

against his will



this was the way we danced them to the door

and sent them on their way into the world

where they will leap amain

till they think one kind thought

for all I know they may be dancing still



while we returned with our own

into our hall

and entering in

made fast

the grassy door.