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Each November since any remember comes a-stealing the Weirdling-Man.
Traveling alone on twilight roads, seeking wicked children in the lands.
With raspy voice of rustling leaves he calls the children to his side.
And sings them songs of trinkets, pleasures and sinfully sweet delights.
Only the wicked hear his song, ears thirsty for his deceitful lies.
One by one they rise from bed or cot, and dance into the darkling night.
Along twilight lanes neath darksome skies, they follow the Weirdling's song.
In dusky gloom they are want to follow, their lives far and distant-dim behind.
Through meadows where no one dare go, they dance and frolic in the night.
Under the Weirdling Tree they go , beneath roots where wicked secrets lie.
Down they go into the ground led by Weirdling lies, then disappear from sight.