From the working nights the village round the old church becomes scary town.
[All curtains?], windows and bolted doors, but never a eye to see.
As us fairy folks [???] the hill, never caught us and never will,
Pulling roses and daffodils. Mayhem in the high degree.
The blacksmith chased us all to ground.
He searched all night; we were never found.
The tinker boys of the sheriff's men shaking the tallest tree.
And we sat and watched the women hide, laughed so much we split our sides,
Scattered horses that they would find. Mayhem in the high degree
We crossed through fields and midnight green, often heard but seldom seen,
Tore along hedges and the leaves. No one could quite agree
Whether we came from north or south. We stole the streets from out their mouths
and go where no man would allow. Mayhem in the high degree.
We ride the thin winds of the night and set our spirits free
We terrify the [men enfold?], the fox is still far too bold
So we strung him up [???] neatly folded. Mayhem, maybe.