Out past where the oldest trails do taper into gorse;
Farther than the hideouts where men digest remorse;
Miles beyond anything worth salt or half a prayer,
Hills and pines unending, conceal a ghostly flare.
It flashes like a lighthouse, shadows between the trees.
It\'s song that of a siren, far from darkest seas.
Dancing round the hilltops there, or down above the bog,
Teases glowing beacon, beckoning through fog.
Do not follow where she leads, if maiden it do be;
\'Tis just a will-o-the-wisp that roams forever free.