By Chris Edwards

From my father’s hold with iron cold I swore I’d not return ‘Til I’d felt the breath and seen the death Of the beast of Volgadurn

Though furs I lacked, its spoor I tracked Through snowfields cold and stern To the child it took by the blood-stained brook Oh, the beast of Volgadurn

‘Twas the high-woods trail that I tried to scale Where first it sought to turn In my pursuit I stopped to shoot At the beast of Volgadurn

The arrow flew, the shot was true Hot blood fell like to burn It whined and fled, and crimson bled Straight back to Volgadurn

To my father’s hold with iron cold I rushed with grave concern I found him dead from my arrow-head The Beast of Volgadurn

When Winter’s chills come scour these hills My blood begins to churn For my fur is won, my father’s son Is the Beast of Volgadurn…