The stars, the stars are much maligned
And hidden from the day
At night a darkling fiend
Upon our sleeping village preys
It looms in
From neighb'ring wood
From thickets wan and grey
And from the first
We've known not rest
A single day

At night, at night, a crimson light
Within the manor home
It grows inside with naught to hide
And takes on ghastly form
As pale as death, its face a mask
Of terrors dreamed in flame
Valet and maid, they would not stay
The lord has flown away
He's flown away

Oh, one by one
Its menace spun
Throughout this shadow bower
Here I remain, though rent in twain
Alone in my last hour
The Weird, the Weird of Finistere
Now here within my home
I fell its stare
And meet its glare
Its shadow my own

The Weird, the Weird of Finistere