Across the moonlit dale I sprint,
followed by an army of a dozen men.
No sound breaks the still night air.
We travel like foxes in a sheep's pen.

Up the mountain's face we scramble, peek over its head,
and at the sight my heart is hating:
of a stone shield sneering back at me.
The enemy is waiting.

The restraint reinforced by pewter rocks and stone,
the ferocious, dry-wall will be destroyed by man.
To make certain the master does not return,
My power is wasted as I scan the sleeping land.

And as the mighty sun melts the night with golden strength,
my heart stops and my insides burn.
At the outlook of a collage of armoured soldiers and horses,
it's deadly obvious Sir Philip Morton has returned.

The robber of our meadows, our pennies and crops,
Who left our tired people mourning.
At the monstrosity of a cold outrage in his eyes,
I whistle an expression of warning.

God speed mighty segment of rock I shied,
guide yourself through the thief's head.
But Despite my praying and the rock missing man and horse,
I know Sir Philip will want me dead.
A small sliver of sunlight reflects,
on a metal barrel and an empty stare.
An explosion of fire, I freeze,
as my green, woolen hat by bullet is snared.

The bullet had nearly pierced my skull.
I take the life left in me and flee.
Down the mountain's rocky side,
into the wall of trees.

Through the heather, over the becks,
I dare not look back.
My heart beats so frantically,
I can scarcely keep track.

And little do know,
as I continue my drastic hike,
with morning's breath he will emerge,
and with vengeance he will strike.