Grey Grisold

All on the misty mountain In the driving rain, There saw I Grey Grisold Bowed under his chain. The fairies have bound him With his knees up to his chin, All in the grey weather Weeping for his sin. He lives on the lone mountain Sitting on a grey stone, Where the wind pipes sadly O'er the moorland lone. I saw his gnarled fingers And his bent bald crown; I heard his tears falling, Falling endless down. They have fallen so long To a stream they have grown They have worn two furrows In the grey stone. Through the rocks and the heather They go flowing down, Where the plovers fly wailing Over bog-lands brown. Grey Grisold was taken From his bags of gold, The red gold he got For the soul that he sold. To a grey stone they bound him With his knees up to his chin, All on the high mountain Weeping for his sin.