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