Jack In Irons

By Catt Kingsgrave

 

On the moorland tracks of Scotland

In the moonís uncertain light

It is often that the mists will cloak

The world in faceless white

Then a man could walk beside you

But youíd never see his face

And a mob might march behind you,

Full fog-muffled in their pace.

 

On such a wicked night

The moor-folk have a tale to tell;

Donít go out upon the moorlands

If your life you value well

For apart from mortal dangers,

Worse than any man could be

Is the giant Jack in Irons,

Whom no man has lived to see.

 

And itís clank, clank, clank

Thereís a heavy step upon the road

Clank, clank, clank,

Any wonder that your blood runs cold?

And now come down your choices;

Do you take the chance to flee

Or meet the giant jester

Of the court Unseeligh Sidhe?

 

Not a man knows where he comes from,

Not a man knows where he goes

But he always leaves behind

A battered corpse in bloody clothes

And sometimes the headís been crushed

And other times itís fully gone.

No one laughs to find the giantís jokes

Beside the road at dawn.

 

But itís sometimes that a traveler

Will laugh at such a tale.

With a smile to all grim warnings

He will take the darkened trail

Then, perhaps an hour later

When the moon is in the sky,

The hounds will raise a clamour

As if death is looming nigh.

 

And itís clank, clank, clank

Thereís a heavy step upon the road

Clank, clank, clank,

Any wonder that your blood runs cold?

And now come down your choices;

Do you take the chance to flee

Or meet the giant jester

Of the court Unseeligh Sidhe?

 

Oh the local folk will shiver

They will turn a little white

And each one will thank the Lord

It isnít HIM out in the night

And when dawn reveals the slaughter

Of the fool they tried to warn

Thereíll be not a one surprised

He didnít live to see the morn.

 

On you cannot blame the moor-folk

If their words you didnít heed

And it matters not to Jack

If you abhor his bloody deed.

You can only blame your folly

Should you find youíre not alone

When the moorland mist is rising

And youíre far away from home.

 

Then itís clank, clank, clank,

There he stands before you in the road

Clank, clank, clank,

Very proper that your blood runs cold

Youíve run out of choices

For thereís no time left to flee

The deadly Jack in Irons is come

To make his fun of thee.