intro We speak his name in quiet rooms, though never after dark, For those who live upon his land have seen his shadow’s mark. He walks with steps too smooth for men, too silent on the floor, A tall and graceful Highland shape… but born of something more. verse The iron sword he carries bare should bite the hand that holds, Yet he lifts it like it weighs nothing when fog begins to fold. It keeps our borders safe from beasts that circle through the glen, But those who farm the farthest fields swear he hunts down men. chorus The banshee’s cry across the ridge warns all who dare to roam, Her wail becomes our warning too: stay close, stay still, stay home. For where her voice is sharp and thin, the Laird strikes fast and grim— And though he keeps the night at bay, his grin stirs dread within. verse He rides a horse as black as soot across the purple heath, Its hooves strike out like thunderclaps that echo underneath. And when you hear that pounding drift across the moor at night, You bar your door and bank your fire, and pray he’s not in sight. chorus The banshee’s cry across the ridge warns all who dare to roam, Her wail becomes our warning too: stay close, stay still, stay home. For where her voice is sharp and thin, the Laird strikes fast and grim— And though he keeps the night at bay, his grin stirs dread within. verse We owe him peace within these hills—no raiders cross our streams, No shadowed thing from deeper woods has crept into our dreams. Yet still we flinch when he walks by, for none can call him kin, A man who looks like one of us… but far too old within. chorus The banshee’s cry across the ridge warns all who dare to roam, Her wail becomes our warning too: stay close, stay still, stay home. For where her voice is sharp and thin, the Laird strikes fast and grim— And though he keeps the night at bay, his grin stirs dread within. outro So keep your words soft-spoken here, and keep your lanterns trimmed, For though he guards the heathered lands, he wasn’t born to them. And somewhere on the moor tonight, within the shadows deep, Laird MacRaethen rides the ridge—and watches as we sleep. final chorus The banshee’s cry across the ridge warns all who dare to roam, Her wail becomes our warning too: stay close, stay still, stay home. For where her voice is sharp and thin, the Laird strikes fast and grim— And though he keeps the night at bay, his grin stirs dread within.
