a nee’r do well
ere before there was such a thing
when he was a wee lad the ghosts came one ‘nite
e’er put a fear into him
and a ‘ot of scotch as well
walking the auld castle at midnight
the spirit of a deposed laird ‘twas said
the moat ‘eld many secrets
that it will nee’r tell
will not be whispered by the loch
or be murmured by the treacherous Fox Tor moor
where some have gone in
and never come back a’gin
e’er lost in the deep confines of the eerie swamp
dark and foreboding
as a damp cell in dismal Dartmoor prison
where only the most dangerous we’re invited
and lived out their days in the soupy gloom
‘mong the thick fog that worn like an auld trench coat
a dreadful eeriness that covers the landings in the e’en
like a wailing lost soul o’er the marsh and into the room
prowling the muddy and cursed grounds
the gray crag--morgue cold to the touch
