And rocky outpour,
There is a drude,
That dwells on Dartmoor.
It has haunted the dreams,
Of those who camp,
Relishing screams,
Terrorising basic fears,
Those dwelling,
Upon the land,
For hundreds of years.
It enjoys feline company,
And often feeds cats its energy,
By leaking out,
Of its right hand.
Looking at the Drude,
For it is only those furry fiends,
That can see it,
Well,
Unless you,
Are one of the blessed,
Granted the gift to see,
Or peek,
From the corner of your eye,
When they dart and dash,
When their outline stands out,
In shadows of rooms,
In the darkness of bushes.
It is said,
That the Drude on Dartmoor,
Will haunt your dreams,
To try and scare you,
And keep you away,
For the furze lined lands,
Mark its domain,
Where it keeps the treasures,
Left behind,
By those who wander,
Or have it stolen from them,
When they roam.
The Drude plays master.
It calls to the magpies,
Minions, of tidings,
Sorrow - it brings,
Joy – find things,
Girls – hide rings,
Boys – stone flings,
And the magpies steal,
And bring back to their master,
Bands of gold and teal,
Fortune grows vaster.
The Drude is lean and tall,
Outstretched boney arms,
With spindly fingers,
Ready to grab the heads of sheep,
And pull them off,
With one motion,
As a popping sound is heard,
The herd dashes away.
The Drude,
Its eyes are dark,
Deep abyss like caves,
With no light escaping,
Ready to glare at those who trek,
And trespass,
Upon its dominion.
Be warned of Dartmoor’s uncrowned king,
Be warned,
For it is tenacious and unrelenting,
No matter of repenting,
Will unlock its claws from you,
For the only way to put it down,
Is to command with the drude’s foot,
Or pentagram.
On one such night,
Of storm pouring down,
The Drude trounced the land,
From village to town,
And there did find,
A sorry old soul,
An aged woman,
No longer whole.
Her husband had parted,
A decade before,
So she had retreated,
To the comfort of moor,
But the Drude desired,
To haunt and scare,
And drive the woman,
To scream beware.
It crept into room,
Where it lurched above,
The resting woman,
Who had lost her love,
And it peered into mind,
To find her weakness,
And it showed her his death,
To cause great distress.
Bolting upright,
She lunged for her ring,
And placed upon finger.
She held it out front,
And commanded it leave,
A pentagram on silver weave.
The Drude screamed,
A blood curdling howl,
Dashed for the door,
Tripping on her cowl,
And falling down flat,
Upon it's stern face,
As it fled from the house,
To its own hiding place.
The woman was wise,
For she had heard the tale,
Of the Drude of Dartmoor,
and what made it wail.