~The Rider On The Hill~

A rider appeared on the hill

He gave a call sharp and shrill

Tall and straight he sits and waits

But alas, he is too late.

And no longer did she sing her songs

As hope withered in her breast,

She died, and was laid to rest

In a grave at the bottom of the hill

Where she waits for him still

Straight and tall in the saddle

He fought well and died a hero

And now when the moon is yellow

She comes to his call sharp and shrill

And eagerly joins the rider on the hill