This was inspired for my love of the poems that told a story like The Highwayman and Ichabod Crane.

Ghost Ride Cross the Moor

On the moors of Brador in the gloom of the fog
As the winds like a banshee did howl
He rode through the night his heart full of fright
At those things that go bump in the night

He had stole from the widow a kindly poor soul
She'd had offered him a meal and a roof
He took all she had treated her bad
Then laughed like a man gone half mad

But as he rode through the moor like he done before
On the steed that once carried the widow’ man
Felt a cold hand round his heart, his fear it did start
As a ghost rider made the very woods part

When the grave sight approached he heard the first moan
As fellow spirits are prone to do
When he seen them rise up by the light of the moon
He knew that the ghost was her groom

When he came to the gate of his hideaway home
He couldn’t believe what he seen
A spirit riding high like a Cavalry guy
His bloodied sabre held in hand with war cry

He died of the fright that occurred that night
The widow’s purse offered in outstretched hand
They found him so stone cold, withered and old
But in death he was no longer so bold.