From the recording Vol 1


In the dismal night air dressed
I will creep into her breast
Flush her cheek and blanch her skin
And feed on the vital fire within

Lover do not trust her eye
When they sparkle most she dies
Mother do not trust her breath
Comfort she will find in death

Father do not try to save her
She is mine and I will have her
The coffin must be her bridal bed
The winding sheet must wrap her head.

The whispering wind must o're her sigh
For soon in the grave the maid must die
The silent snow must o're her fall
And too her lover I must call.