The Spriggan

The Spriggan

There is a lonely windswept crag that looms not far from here
They say the views do stretch for miles when everything is clear
And on it stands a ruined circle, jagged against the sky
But your word for that I’ll have to take; I’ll not go there, not I

Doesn’t do to mess with Spriggans, and one has moved up there
His eyes are mean and glinting, on his head is not much hair
He’s a nasty little crooked thing with skinny pointed bones
And I’ve seen him sitting up there, creating God awful moans

The circle tomb hides treasure of coins of silver and gold
Never to be discovered while the Spriggan has his hold
For he sits and guards such plunders with selfish and spiteful glee
And the highlight of his day is throwing stones to watch you flee

A menace to the traveller who just wants to pass on by
With secret ways of cunning stealth he’s devious and sly
He’ll lead them off the trodden path amidst the boggy moors
And not be satisfied until they are lost among the tors

All this I say because I know, for I once went to peek
And a Spriggan came upon me for a game of hide and seek
Before I knew it I was lost; I drowned slowly in a bog
And my spirit now walks aimlessly through misty moorland fog