Away, my steed, thro' wood and storm,
And slack not in the springing,
Avaunt! O ghostly beck'ning form,
That to my side art clinging!

I cannot stay, my bed tonight
Is not in forest dreary,
For me awaits a lady bright,
"Come quick!" cries love, "I'm weary."

Avaunt! O warlock weird, avaunt!
Thy look it glows so grimly;
Thine arm is meagre, long and gaunt,
Thy body grey looms dimly;

My love hath whiter arms than thou,
Her eyes like stars beam mildly,
Her smile it lights both lip and brow,
Why threat'nest thou so wildly?

The Heron croaks loud, the good steed sighs
With flanks all red with spurring,
The witch grows up to giant size,
The rider's thoughts go whirring.

Away! away! the wings they brush,
The trees they nod and sidle,
A thousand wild things gush and rush,
She catches at the bridle,

Now she hath caught his arm quite fast,
It seems around to darkle,
He grasps and clutches then at last,
The witch's eyes they sparkle:

All riderless the good steed flies,
And there, in forest dreary,
In her embrace the dead lord lies -
"Come quick," cries love, "I'm weary!