Unwelcome Irish Visitor
Irish mist on peatland bog,Β
Cloak heavy as the sound of the Bannshe calls,Β
Its wailing sound, pierces the heart,Β
And almost in a way it makes it stop,Β
It comes behind you, it goes in front,Β
To tell you death is here, you are out of our luck,Β
Or even worse, to make you think,Β
To tell you death will be here quick,Β
So feel its breath on your goose pimpled skin,Β
But beware its touch, its death it deals in,Β
Its wailing call, beckons spirits to roam,Β
Across those bog lands that they now call home,Β
So when you sleep remember this,Β
The sounds of the night, of many there are,Β
But now so terrible as the Banshee by far,Β
So when you hear it, stop and think,Β
Is it me who is getting a visit, am I going to die quick.Β
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