Clatter of the Dullahan

On the misty moors, where the heather bends low. The wind whispers

secrets of centuries ago. A rider comes flying. No head to

be seen. Eyes glowing red where the skull should have been. The sheep start

to scatter. The dogs howl in fright. As the Dullahan passes

in the dead of night. Hear the clatter across the moors, through the fog,

through the night's closed doors. A headless rider with eyes that burn.

No soul can escape. No heart can turn. The farmers all

shutter their windows and doors while the horseman rides pass