She swept the halls in the moon’s pale glow
Dust and shadows her only foe
The clock struck twelve but time stood still
Her echo lingered on the hill

Whisper in the gorge
What’s the tale you keep
Broken hearts don’t float
They sink too deep

Was it love
Was it fate
Was it cruel design
Or the rushing water that drew the line

Her apron stained with autumn rain
Eyes like lanterns
Full of pain
The river called
A siren’s plea
The stones below her last decree

No footprints left
No note to find
Only the roar
And the howling mind

Whisper in the gorge
What’s the tale you keep
Broken hearts don’t float
They sink too deep

Was it love
Was it fate
Was it cruel design
Or the rushing water that drew the line
The trees bow down
The winds still sigh
The stars refuse to light the sky
Her story lives where the waters churn
A question asked but no return

Paths cut through the meadow grass beneath the apple trees.
They went past the cherry blossom and the softly humming bees.
Birds are singing happily, the light shines down through the leaves.
Spring daffodils and children dance, it's the perfect place to be.

Butterflies they flutter by and dance along the breeze.
Soaking up the sunshine and feeling wild and free.
Relaxing from the river walk, there's a happy family.
Playing in the summer sun, it's the perfect place to be.

All around the apple crop is burdening the trees.
Dropping into cider pots to set the branches free.
A colourful mosaic of slowing turning leaves.
In autumn it's the perfect place to be.

The wind was cold on Dartmoor plain, the moon hung pale and wide,
With thunder rolling down the rocks and shadows at his side.
He spurred his mare through bracken black, his cloak flew like a flame,
For home lay past the devil’s crack — and none had dared that game.

Oh ride, bold rider, ride!
The gorge is deep and wild and wide,
But love and fire burn stronger still
Than fear upon that hill.
So leap, brave horseman, leap,
For hearts don’t rest in sleep
Till they find their way back home.

They say the gap at Lydford’s edge is cursed by ghost and stone,
Where many tried to cross the void and none came back alone.
But he had seen his cottage light through mist and driving rain,
And every hoofbeat drummed her name like thunder in his brain.

He leaned into the gallop fierce, his mare she gave a cry,
As hoof met edge and stars took shape beneath the spinning sky.
They soared across the black abyss, where even ravens fear,
And landed hard on heath and moss, his cottage drawing near.

Now elders speak by firelight of how he beat the gorge,
With devil wind behind his back and fate beneath his forge.
And lovers still ride Lydford way when storm clouds scrape the dome,
Remembering the rider bold who jumped his way back home.

The mist rolls in on Wistman’s Wood,
Where twisted oaks in silence stood,
They say the hounds of hell still bay,
And chase the souls who’ve lost their way.

Oh run, lads, run from the moorland shade,
Where whispers ride the cold cascade,
The wind may howl and the spirits soar,
But none come back from old Dartmoor.

On Bowerman’s Nose the ravens cry,
Where witches cursed him, turned to sky,
A hunter once with heart so bold,
Now carved in granite, bleak and cold.

At Jay’s Grave flowers bloom each day,
Left by hands that slip away,
A maid betrayed by love and kin,
Now walks the night through fog and sin.

So heed this song, ye brave or mad,
The moor remembers all it had,
From ghostly steeds to prison walls,
The earth still echoes ancient calls.

Oh run, lads, run from the moorland shade,
Where whispers ride the cold cascade,
The wind may howl and the spirits soar,
But none come back from old Dartmoor.

The river hums
It knows my name
Cold hands reach
But they're not to blame
The moor whispers secrets
Old and deep

The water's edge
Where fears dissolve
The current spins
My heart evolves

Wild swimming saves me
Oh it saves me
From drowning in a life too heavy
Flowing water sets me free
Wild swimming saves me

Pebbles shift
They tell no lies
The sky reflects in trembling sighs
I dive through mirrors
Breaking time

The reeds they sway
They pull me near
Their gentle songs
I always hear

Wild swimming saves me
Oh it saves me
From drowning in a life too heavy
Flowing water sets me free
Wild swimming saves me.

In the shadowed cleft of Devon's bones,
Where the river roars and the wild wind moans,
There rode the men with hearts of flame,
No king could chain, no law could tame.

Through twisted paths and hollow trees,
They vanished quick as autumn leaves.
Gold in hand and blood in oath,
They lived by blade, and they died by both.

Raise your glass to the Gorge so wide,
Where the ghosts of the fearless still ride.
No gallows could steal what they forged -
The names of the outlaws of Lydford Gorge.

They robbed the lords, they fed the poor,
They laughed at chains and bolted door.
But justice came with fire and hound,
And buried bones in cursed ground.

Now mist rolls down where they once stood,
Their names long lost in stone and wood.
But when the river starts to cry,
You'll hear them ride beneath the sky.

Raise your glass to the Gorge so wide,
Where the ghosts of the fearless still ride.
No gallows could steal what they forge
The names of the outlaws of Lydford Gorge.

In Lydford Gorge where shadows cling,
By Tucker’s Pool, where night birds sing,
A chambermaid in apron white,
Was lost beneath the waning light.

Some say she wept from love betrayed,
A locket clasped, her sorrow laid,
From the rock where waters churn
She stepped, and never did return.

Or was it just a slip, a fall?
The moss was wet, the ledge too small.
No lover near, no final cry
Just river deep and Dartmoor sky.

Now mists rolls low on granite stone,
And voices drift when you’re alone.
A broken heart, or fate’s cruel hand?
The gorge hides secrets in the land

Lydford Gorge so deep so wide
Mossy walls where secrets hide
Water whispers it calls my name

Green light dancing shadows play
Heartbeats echo far away

Saved by the water saved by the fall
Rushing wild I hear it all
The power of nature my heart sings
Lost in the rush of eternal springs

Roots that grip and stones that cry
Flowing streams they never lie
Devon’s soul in the river’s roar

The gorge it hums a sacred tune
Under sun and under moon

Saved by the water saved by the fall
Rushing wild I hear it all
The power of nature my heart sings
Lost in the rush of eternal springs.

Down by the gorge where the shadows grow deep,
Where the river runs wild and the moss doesn’t sleep,
There flows a white ribbon through granite and green,
The Whitelady’s falling where none can be seen.

Oh Whitelady, whisper so low,
Through the veil of the water, where secrets still flow.
With tears from the hill and a song in the stone,
She calls to the hearts that are wandering alone.

The oak trees they bow as she passes them by,
With a voice like the wind and a sorrowful sigh.
They say she once waited for love who was lost,
Now she watches the river, no matter the cost.

The mist on the moor and the rush of the stream,
Carry the weight of her long-vanished dream.
But step not too close, for the rocks are as sly
As the glance of her eye when the moon’s riding high.

So if you should wander through Lydford one day,                                                
And the birds all fall silent along your green way,
Take heed of the hush and the cool silver spray,
For the Whitelady watches and might bid you stay.

Oh Whitelady, whisper so low,
Through the veil of the water, where secrets still flow.
With tears from the hill and a song in the stone,
She calls to the hearts that are wandering alone.
Yes, she calls to the hearts that are wandering alone.

Down by the moor where the river runs cold,
The men of Lydford minted gold,
Not of riches, but silver bright,
Pennies struck in morning light.
To buy the peace the swords denied,
To hold the Dane and turn the tide.

Lydford pennies, sharp and small,
Held the wrath from Saxon hall.
Now they gleam where none can see,
Coins of war in bark and tree.

The Northmen came with axe and flame,
But found no town to stake their claim.
For every coin that Lydford made,
A raid was stilled, a price was paid.
A silver voice to calm the storm,
A quiet shield in hammered form.

Now walk the wood where the oak trees grow,
And spot the marks from long ago.
A penny pressed in living grain,
A prayer for peace, a charm for rain.
No mint remains, no soldiers stay,
But still the coins keeps them away.

So raise a cup to the forge and fire,
To village folk and quiet desire.
Who fought not with the sword or spear,
But hammered hope and buried fear.
And though the time has washed them thin,
The tale still rings in Lydford’s wind.

Lydford pennies, sharp and small,
Held the wrath from Saxon hall.
Now they gleam where none can see,
Coins of war in bark and tree.

She slips through the heather at break of day,
Barefoot silence where the wild things play,
The mist still clings to the waking land,
She dives through the river like it’s made of sand.

With wind in her hair and fire in her soul,
The wild calls her name, makes her whole

She swims where the water runs dark and deep,
Dances on rocks the cliffs can’t keep,
Sleeps by the stars with the moon for light,
She is the day and she is the night.
One with the wind, one with the shore,
She is the spirit, the spirit of the moor.

She sings to the lark and the crow replies,
She walks with the foxes, knows where truth lies,
Her heart beats low like a deer on the run,
A child of the storm and the golden sun.

She’s a whisper in bracken, a shadow at dawn,
Along with the tide and the dew she’s gone

She swims where the water runs dark and deep,
Dances on rocks the cliffs can’t keep,
Sleeps by the stars with the moon for light,
She is the day and she is the night.
One with the wind, one with the shore,
She is the spirit, the spirit of the moor.

She’s not made for walls or roads,
She walks where the granite grows.
Will of the wisp, wild and free,
She’s the voice in the rustling trees.

She swims where the water runs wild and wide,
Laughs with the storm, takes fate in stride,
Sleeps in a cloak of heather and rain,
Wakes with the dawn to dance again.
One with the wind, one with the shore,
She is the spirit, the spirit of the moor.

So if you see her when the twilight calls
Don’t try to keep her, she’s not yours
She’s where the wild things dream and soar,
She is the spirit,
The spirit of the moor.

Hear the buzzard’s cry on a soaring wing,
Dartmoor granite glows with the breath of spring.
Each whispering breeze recalls days long passed,
Blending now and then, echoes that last.

Barefoot we gather on ferns wet with dew,
Learning the truths that the old ones knew.
Ancient and wise, their presence is near,
In each golden dusk, each sunrise clear.
Their eyes, your eyes, gaze on the same scene,
Your dreams, their dreams, woven between.

Connected we stand, river, moon, and sun,
In a time when nature and soul were one.
Bound together, like mist and rain,
Their gifts endure in the stones that remain.

Barefoot we gather on ferns wet with dew,
Learning the truths that the old ones knew.
Ancient and wise, their presence is near,
In each golden dusk, each sunrise clear.
Their eyes, your eyes, gaze on the same scene,
Your dreams, their dreams, woven between.

In deepest Devon where shadows grow
Green mossy walls a velvet glow
The gorge it hums a whispered tune
Beneath the sky beneath the moon

The water swirls It pulls It calls
Through ancient veins It never stalls

Lydford whispers, hear it flow
Secrets only the river knows
Beauty and power hand in hand
Carving dreams into the land

A silver thread through time it weaves
A tale of stone and autumn leaves
The rocks they listen the trees they bow
The water’s song forever now

A silver thread through time it weaves
A tale of stone and autumn leaves
The rocks they listen the trees They bow
The water’s song forever now.

Five hundred years I’ve stood alone,
Through wind and fire and mossy stone,
I watched the horsemen ride the moor,
Heard whispers from the prison door.
The stream still sings a song I know,
Of battle cries and winter snow,
I held the sky through storm and flame,
And still the ravens speak my name.

I am the oak, the old, the wise,
With roots sunk deep and reaching high.
I’ve seen your kingdoms rise and fall,
And yet I stand through it all.
Lydford’s heart, the winds confide,
A thousand tales in bark I hide.

The peddler’s foot, the soldier’s tread,
The toll of church bells for the dead.
Lovers carved their names in vain,
Now lost to time like summer rain.
I felt the weight of Cromwell’s age,
Heard secrets whispered page by page,
A silent witness to the years,
To laughter loud and bitter tears.

Now children climb where owls once nested,
And poets sit where kings once rested.
My hollow trunk holds dusk and dawn,
A cradle for the world reborn.
Though leaves may fall and bark may fade,
My soul remains in greenest shade.
So pause a while beneath my limb,
And hear the echoes, soft and dim.

I am the oak, the old, the wise,
With roots sunk deep and reaching high.
I’ve seen your kingdoms rise and fall,
And yet I stand through it all.
Lydford’s heart, the winds confide,
A thousand tales in bark I hide.

Morning mists from the granite rise,
Heather blooms under open skies.
Ponies roam through the bracken gold,
Tales untold from the moor of old.

Rivers flow past silent tors,
Soft as dreams through ancient  doors.
Stone and sky, they hold me near,
Every step makes the meaning clear.

Evening falls like a lullaby,
Foxgloves nod as the buzzards cry.
Though I roam, I will not stray,
Dartmoor calls me everyday.

Dartmoor, my heart is yours,
In the hush of your ancient moors.
Where the wind sings low and free,
That’s where my soul will always be.