Dartmoor

Dartmoor

Passing the ponies, grazing on the land
As along the winding road we go
Our journey sure, our journey planned
To Widecombe from Plymouth Hoe

Mist on the tor, comes creeping low
Icy fingers are reaching out
And we cannot see, we travel slow
Our journey now is cast in doubt

Moonlight over the hills, roars a sound
Chills the blood, and gives a fright
For it is the baying of a ghostly hound
Across Grimpen Mire, in dead of night

I love this moor, and its tales so old
Where only the bravest venture bold