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The Pale Host - text

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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.

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