Chapter III

O’er the lone mountains riding,
He gallop’d by gloomsome ways,
Where night-mists were abiding,
Round the witch of evil days:
Her name is written on the wind,
That speaks in cliffs and caves confin’d.
List there when the waning moon goes down,
And thou’lt hear the call her spirits own;
But as they pass, hold a chrystal glass,
Or thou’lt sorely rue the wild witch-tone.