Aye…

between the purple heather of Culudon

twas once a dream of lovers thrice forgot

The brave young Robert of the Moor

His sweet love Maid Marion of Challot

The dark haired maiden fair of Challot

Forced to keep her lover’s promise hid

his words inside her silver locket

against her bosom it laid forgotten not

‘Twas said to that crying bosom

She’d hold the scarf that once

ordained his bloodied neck

until from the fields of valor

he would make his final valiant trek

His crimson scarf she kept

O’er her pillow and fair cheek

to it she clung in darkest night

while behind the castle walls

it seemed to soothe her wretched fright

Alas…

 not all stories have a happy ending

A North blade stole away their dream

And her smile was but a haunting memory

on his blood flecked lips her name to cry

as the darkness began to steel the sunshine

to let in eternal peace her dark knight die

The Maid smiled but for the briefest moment

thinking of his embrace and sweetest kiss

but collapsed when seized upon with sadness

when told that fate had forever stole their bliss

Now oft on the moors around Culudon

When the heather perfumes the very air

As the maiden walks in robes of black

In her heart of hearts she feels him there

Nay no more tears from her Irish eyes