A noble soul, he is betrayed
by men of ill repute.
They left him on the moor to die,
alone with just his lute.

When he awoke he saw the eyes,
of wolves beneath the moon.
Who circled ‘round the dying fire
for blood and meat as boon.

They looked at him and he at them,
For minutes long as days.
He took up lute and began to sing,
To calm their wolven ways.

First, he sang of maidens fair
who yearned for soldiers strong,
Then he sang of sailors brave,
On journeys far and long.

He sang of children lost at sea,
For their salvation found.
He sang of pirates in their ships,
And how they ran aground.

He sang of mists on empty moor,
And wolves who howl to moon.
He sang for lonely minstrel lads,
Who tripped on death too soon.

Cerridwen took pity then
For he’d moved her heart so fey.
She made the wolves to lie asleep,
Until the break of day.

So minstrel when you are alone,
And caught out with the worst,
Make sure your lute is strung up well,
And all your songs rehearsed.