The moors of Nolthir abide the road to the shore
Protecting our sea with heath and peat;
A borderland with hands that reach to find
The legs of the land walker and pull him
Into the murky depths of the bog
Broad the waters of the moors
Tales say dead guard our shores
Dead hands rise to clasp
Each down’d and drown’d
His friends not see his falling for the fog.
And attack by brimlad is equally fool
For the sea dwellers rise
Neither from front nor back, but below
Each fellow’s tool ties
The land walker to the depths
Pulled down to a demise in darkness.
