The Ride
He mounted his horse impatient to ride,
With silver spurs and a heavy stride;
The clatter of hooves on the cobblestone street,
Flew on limbs so swift and fleet.
The moon rose above the copse on the hill,
Casting dark shadows gloomy and still;
The clock chimed twelve in the village square,
As he rode through the land shrouded and bare.
The toll of the bell in the stone church tower,
Rings long and loud at the midnight hour.
The moon rose above the graves on the hill,
Casting dark shadows dim and still;
Beneath the churchyard lay those who died,
But still he rode with measured stride.
A glimmer of light from the belfry's height,
Pierces the gloom of the cold dark night;
As he leans in the saddle with reigns in hand,
With flying feet he gallops over the land;
Ride up the hill and down in the dale,
His cape flying in the wind like a serpent's tail;
He rode his horse faster and fleet,
With sparks flying out from under his feet;
And people rose from their beds to listen and heed,
Of the footfall of rider and his gallant steed.
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