A Faerie Song

Red Rider, Red Rider

upon your pale horse

in your basket you gather

the slain from their wars.

Ridea, Ridea,

with bells all a-ringing

the music is wailing,

the faeries are singing:

Let it boil, let it burn,

Time will turn, time will turn.

You will be gone, but we shall remain.

Behind the rain, behind the rain.