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(Poem, Charles Dawson Shanly, 1859; set to music by Sean Tyrrell.)

Speed on, speed on, good Master! The camp lies far away.
We must cross the haunted valley before the close of day.
How the snow-blight came upon me, I will tell you as we go,
The blight of the Shadow Hunter who walks the midnight snow.

To the cold December heaven came the pale moon and the stars,
As the yellow sun was sinking behind the purple bars.
The snow was deeply drifted upon the ridges drear
That lay for miles between me and the camp for which we steer.

'Twas silent on the hillside, and by the somber wood,
No sound of life or motion to break the solitude,
Save the wailing of the moosebird with a plaintive note and low,
And the skating of the red leaf upon the frozen snow.

And said I, "Though dark is falling, and far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome if I had but company."
And then I sang and shouted, keeping measure as I sped,
To the harp-twang of the snowshoe as it sprang beneath my tread.

Nor far into the valley had I dipped upon my way,
When a dusky figure joined me in a capuchin of gray,
Bending upon the snowshoes with a long and limber stride,
And I hailed the dusky stranger as we traveled side by side.

But no token of communion gave he by word or look,
And the fear-chill fell upon me at the crossing of the brook,
For I saw by the sickly moonlight as I followed, bending low,
That the walking of the stranger left no footmarks on the snow.

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me like a shroud around me cast,
And I sank upon the snowdrift where the Shadow Hunter passed.
And the otter-trappers found me before the break of day,
With my dark hair blanched and whitened as the snow in which I lay.

But they spoke not as they raised me, for they knew that in the night
I had seen the Shadow Hunter and had withered in the blight.
Sancta Maria speed us! The sun is falling low.
Before us lies the valley of the Walker of the Snow!

[Sung by Davy Spillane on "Shadow Hunter," TARACD 3023, 1990.]
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