It was on one cold winter night,
When the wind blew across the wild moor.
When Mary came wandering home with a child,
‘Til she came to her own father’s door.

“Father, dear father,” she cried,
“Come down and open the door,
Or the child in my arms will perish and die,
From the winds that blow across the wild moor.”

But her father was deaf to her cry.
Not a sound of a voice did he hear.
So the watchdog did howl and the village bells tolled,
And the wind blew across the wild moor.

Oh, how the old man must have felt,
When he came to the door the next morn’,
And he found Mary dead but the child still alive,
Closely grasping its dead mother’s arms.

In grief, the old man passed away,
And the child, to it’s mother, went soon.
And no one, they say, lives there to this day,
And the cottage, to ruin, has gone.

But the villagers point out the spot,
Where the willows grew over the door.
Saying, “There Mary died, once the gay village bride,
From the wind that blow across the wild moor.”