When the moths are flitting, and the fields are still,
'Ware the darkling shadows on the haunted hill,
'Ware the ghosts with axe and spear and flint-headed arrow,
Trooping thro' the summer night,
Trooping when the moon is bright
On the twelve Tree Barrow.

What remembrance of red streams, what furious fray,
Makes the grass grow rich and rank on the mound to-day?
You may see the dead men's bones turned by harrow,
Skulls and thighs of mighty men
Slain in bloody battle then
At the Twelve Tree Barrow.

Draw the curtain closer, bar your windows tight,
Set no foot on yonder hill, tread not there to-night.
Ill for him who dares the spear and flint-headed arrow,
When the warriors wake by night,
Trooping when the moon is white
On the Twelve Tree Barrow.