In the dark valley, there is a flower,
Grown by black, low clouds and pouring showers.
It stands mournfully alone, long and tall,
Growing mightier and higher than all,
Like King Hrogthar in Herot Hall,
In the middle, where the tall flower,
Grown by dark, torrentious spring showers,
There is a human skeleton, long dead.
The old soil becomes his final bed.
Long ago, he lay there with his skin shred,
And his bloody head was full of lead.
As you approach his place, you will feel dread,
The poor old soul was wrongfully murdered,
His restless, old soul was heard to murmur,
You can hear him in the air as it showers,
As the wind moans around the big flower.