Embers of the Black Hound

Down the road where the willows bend,

Past the creek and the hollow's end,

There's a path that the locals fear,

And they don't walk it after the year.

For every autumn, cold and thin,

When the harvest moon is rolling in,

A lonely howl rides through the fog,

And folks lock up tight for the Black Hound Dog.

Oh, beware the Old Black Hound,

When the midnight bells resound.

Eyes like embers, fur like night,

Running where there ain't no light.

He won't bite and he won't bark,

Just follows travelers through the dark.

And if he walks beside your way,

You'll meet a ghost before the day.

My granddad swore when he was young,

He heard that mournful song he'd sung.

A hound as big as a winter bear,

With silver mist caught in his hair.

He crossed the bridge by Widow's Creek,

The dog appeared but did not speak.

Just watched him with those burning eyes,

Like he knew all the hidden lies.

Some say he's death in a shaggy coat,

A ferryman that never needs a boat.

Others claim he's a guardian soul,

Protecting lost folks from the cold.

The truth's been buried long and deep,

With those beneath the churchyard sleep.

But every tale agrees somehow,

You never choose to meet the Hound.

One winter night I saw him too,

Standing where the old pine grew.

His breath was smoke,

his ears stood tall,

And snowflakes didn't touch him at all.

He turned his head and looked at me,

Then toward the dark beyond the trees.

I followed just a little while,

Drawn onward by that eerie smile.

Then from the woods came crying sounds,

Whispers circling all around.

The Hound stepped in between and growled,

And every spirit fled the ground.

Oh,

bless the Old Black Hound tonight,

Keeper of the woodland night.

Eyes like embers, heart unknown,

Walking roads we fear alone.

He won't bite and he won't bark,

But guards the weary in the dark.

And if you hear his lonely cry,

Thank the Hound as he passes by.

So if you're lost where shadows creep,

And ancient things forget to sleep,

Listen close among the pines— The Old Black Hound still walks the

night. (hummmmm)