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