When the West kindles red and low, Across the sunset's sombre glow, The black crows fly-the black crows fly! High pines are swaying to and fro In evil winds that blow and blow. The stealthy dusk draws nigh-draws nigh, Till the sly sun at last goes down, And shadows fall on Catharines-town. Oswaya swaying to and fro. By the Dark Empire's Western gate Eight stately, painted Sachems wait For Amochol-for Amochol! Hazel and samphire consecrate The magic blaze that burns like Hate, While the deep witch-drums roll-and roll. Sorceress, shake thy dark hair down! The Red Priest comes from Catharines-town. Ha-ai! Karenna! Fate is Fate.