What ghostly spectres, shades of midnight pale
Cross o’er the sky and raise a frightening wail!
The sound of hounds, more than the winter frost,
It chills the spine. Alas, all hope is lost!
For who can stand and boast to Woden’s face,
Who sees the train he leads in fearful chase?
To him mere mortals are but prey; who flees
Shall find his feet too slow – that king shall seize
Him when he wills. The huntsman to the skies
Shall rise and take with him the soul as prize.
The echo of his steps shall herald war,
When weak and wicked souls he vexes sore.