The wood so softly singing
In a language strange to hear
And the song it sings will find you
As the twilight draws you near



Graunt that no Hobgoblins fright me
No hungrie devils rise up and bite me;
No Urchins, Elves or drunkards Ghoasts
Shove me against walles or posts.
O graunt that I may no black thing touch.
Though many men love to meet such.

John Day