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Sit down on that stool hear the cant of a fool |
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And a strange tale I'll impart to ye |
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Of a time that I lived at the buff of a hill |
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'Neath the burial chambers you see |
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One Saturday night I got up on my bike |
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To go to a dance in the town |
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I set off at seven to be there at eleven |
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No thought of the rain coming down |
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As I pushed up the hill the rain started to spill |
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So for shelter I had to resort |
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Helter skelter I went as downhill I sped |
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To the trees at the old fairy fort |
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I pulled up my bike be a tree in the gripe |
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To find shelter out of the storm |
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The rain it came down and like stones beat the ground |
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But it was grand to be dry in that storm |
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I was dreaming away about better days |
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When a voice it says dirty ould night |
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I fell over me bike I got such a fright |
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When the ghostly voice bid me the night |
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I jumped up with a start gave the storm not a thought |
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As the hail beat a rhythm on me |
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And I stared at the tree that had spoken to me |
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Not a body was there I could see |
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The voice I had heard not another word said |
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As the hair on the head stood on me |
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And I said an "Our Father" as I peddled much faster |
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Away from that ghost haunted tree |
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For weeks and weeks after with nerves a disaster |
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Nowhere near that road would I go |
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And from dusk through the night I would shake with the fright |
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Of the tree that had haunted me so |
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Now whenever I go to a dance in the town |
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I make sure not to stop on the way |
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To be there for eleven I still leave at seven |
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But I go by a different way |
