Wild Hunt

[aeislugh]

In winter's snow enshrouded tomb
they ride without a trace
a horn it sounds a call to doom
a cry of Death's embrace.

The baying soon will start to rise
as hounds they give their chase.
Through ivory hills they hunt their prize,
setting there a fearsome pace.

The riders led by he who reaps
the souls of winters night.
His horsemen through the forest sweep
in ancient, chilling rite.

So run my friend and cunning use
or keep your doors locked tight.
Unless to them your life you'd loose
to Winter's horned Knight.