Traditional Bardic Song of the Crow

In the heart of Siera's moor, under the moon's silver glow, Perched upon an ancient oak, sits a crow, black as coal. Its eyes, two gleaming stars, piercing the night's dark shroud, Its voice, a haunting echo, resonating loud.
Oh, the crow, the crow, the keeper of the old lore, In its gaze, a thousand tales, of times long before. In its song, a whispering wind, carrying secrets untold, Oh, the crow, the crow, a sight to behold.
Guardian of the mystic realms, in shadows and in light, In its flight, a dance with the wind, a truly captivating sight. Its feathers, ink-stained quills, writing stories in the sky, Its presence, a timeless echo, as centuries pass by.
Oh, the crow, the crow, the bard of the twilight's glow, In its flight, a melody, a rhythm in the ebb and flow. In its call, a symphony, in the silence of the cold, Oh, the crow, the crow, a tale to be told.
Don't be afraid when it opens its eyes, and you catch its gaze, An age has passed since it was born, as guardian to John Barleycorn This is its song, this is its voice, these are its words, this is its choice
Oh, the crow, the crow, the spirit of the wild and free, In its silence, a language, only the wise can see. In its existence, a testament, to the magic of the old, Oh, the crow, the crow, its story to be told.
So here's to the crow, under the moon's silver glow, A bardic tale spun, of the crow, black as coal. In the heart of Cornwall's moor, as the night unfolds, Sings the crow, the crow, bold and bold