Old Corpse Road
The Echoes of Tales Once Told (demo)
1. The Old Corpse Road
Through glens and thickets, o’er moors and heaths
The funeral procession, marches on
O’er fens and swamplands, and down winding paths
To the destined hallowed ground
From dawn till twilight and on through the night
The treacherous death parade continues on
The arduous trek to the burial site
Only guided by candlelight
Haunted by fairies and wraiths
And spirits of the deceased
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
Flowing like rivers along the straight ground
The flitting spectres wretched sound
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
Haunted by fairies and wraiths
And spirits of the deceased
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
Flowing like rivers along the straight ground
The flitting spectres wretched sound
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
No other route or path the we may take
Unploughed and bare they cannot stray
Non-linear trails are carefully laid
Labyrinths and mazes the wraiths dissuade
At the journeys end, with the cemetery in sight
The coffin is set down on the stone to rest
And at the toll of the lych gate bell
The travellers now rest, another to peace in death
Haunted by fairies and wraiths
And spirits of the deceased
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
Flowing like rivers along the straight ground
The flitting spectres wretched sound
Even the dead may not be at rest
On the old corpse road
2. The Wild Hunt
One golden autumn Sunday eve
As the leaves began to brown
Contented as I walked alone
I wandered through forest and gate
The moonlight burns my skin
The woodland darkness my kin
As storm clouds cursed close in
I feel the fear begin
The echoes of tales once told
The gales and storm unfold
With galloping hooves and the baying of hounds
The wild hunt comes across the misty mounds
With the coming of the night
Behold the horse man rides
Within this blackened sight
The hounds that chase the stride
My soul, the hunt it takes
The Wild Hunt Tears me from
The earth I held so warm
Now the wild hunt is here
To burn my soul so clear
The winds have swept me up
My body left corrupt
My soul the hunts dark prize
To roam the midnight skies
To roam the midnight skies
For this cannot be me
This deathly sight that I bleed
Yet I do not grieve
Now on lost souls I feed
The furious host now leads
The hunt begins to flee
O’er storming skies we glide
With Gabriels hounds I ride
Looking down in endless wrath
For those foolish enough to cross my path
Swept up in this cavalcade
To join this hunt, to join the raid
With the coming of the night
Behold the horse man rides
Within this blackened sight
The hounds that chase the stride
Do not mock the horde that sweep,
For you soul they will keep
So when you go out at night this winter time
Listen carefully for the barking of dogs and their cry…
3. The Oakmen of Naddle Forest
Sit down, be silent
Gather around the fire
The breeze sits gentle
Warm your bones and heed these words
Fairy folks are in old oaks
Saplings sprung from the stumps of felled trees
The fairy wood in which they lurk
Is thrice cut copse and bereft of mercy
Hush now, be silent now
Listen to these words I speak
The Oakmen of the forest
Meet them and you will weep
Fairy folks are in old oaks
Their roots deep in the unseen realm
The fairy wood in which they lurk
An uncanny place after dusk
Tempting people in to the copse
Fungus disguised as tempting fruits
To poison passers on their way
The pungent stench of mushroom decay
The Oakmen of Naddle Forest
Forgotten folk of the British counties
Spawned from murdered old oak trees
The Oakmen of Naddle Forest
Sit down, be silent
Gather around the fire
The breeze sits gentle
Warm your bones and heed these words
Fairy folks are in old oaks
Saplings sprung from the stumps of felled trees
The fairy wood in which they lurk
Is thrice cut copse and bereft of mercy
Hush now, be silent now
Listen to these words I speak
The Oakmen of the forest
Meet them and you will weep
The Oakmen of Naddle Forest
Forgotten folk of the British counties
Spawned from slaughtered old oak trees
The Oakmen of Naddle Forest
Oak is the king of the forest
That rests in bluebell seas
Damage them on a misty eve
A lost path they will weave
Bluebells, bluebells
It is said
Bluebells, do not tread
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