The Pale Host - Sojourner

Beneath these hills there runs a stream

A blood-red course where dead men dream

In winter’s cold, their ghosts I see

Their Pale Host ever follows me

Their pyres burned high, their arms they gleamed

And now they lie in Glory’s sleep

And though I lived, the light to see

The Pale Host still walks beside me

They wander far, grey banners high

Though ‘neath these hills their bones still lie

Long through the mists and wilds they roam

But the Pale Host never will march home