I met a knight in the hills,
Riding on his grey noble steed,
With amour loudly clinking,
A fine sight indeed.
Up the meadow with head up high
Hungry and tired was this man,
I offered him rest in my grotto,
For some food I ran.
When I came back I burst out crying,
Because I knew what I needed to do,
It was just the wrong thing I know,
Got to get rid of him to.
Through the fog and dark I took him,
Singing to keep him deep asleep,
Laid him at the edge of the woods,
Where the rest are found.
Ghostly victims came up to him,
All of which I vaguely remember,
Warning him of what I was doing,
Oh sick September.
Another victim come and gone,
Where they capture soles for good
Taken to the place of no return,
No one at all could.
I met a knight in the hills,
Riding on his grey noble stead,
With amour loudly clinking,
It was a sight indeed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem