John Logan (1748–1788)

A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon,

Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me!

I heard the piping of the Loon,

A wounded Loon. Ah me!

And yet the eagle feathers rare

I, trembling, wove in my brave’s hair.

He left me in the early morn,

The early morn. Ah me! ah me!

The feathers swayed like stately corn,

So like the corn. Ah me!

A fierce wind swept across the plain,

The stately corn was snapt in twain.

They crushed in blood the hated race,

The hated race. Ah me! Ah me!

I only clasped a cold, blind face,

His cold, dead face. Ah me!

A blood-red ring hangs in my sight,

I hear the Loon cry every night.