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.
