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A wayward country spirit, with mischievous intent

Lurking in the midnight woodland where all hope is spent

In wait upon old Neasham road, dimly lit by lanterns glow

He haunts this murky realm at dusk, where the waters flow

Dressed in tattered rags, windswept and grim

Beware your soul wary traveller

Don't stop on the road wary traveller

Sleep well in the village weary traveller

For Hob cannot pass the Old Kent Bridge

A lonely drunken coachman in easy prey for Hob

In the cold still night, a deadly chill, an eerie call on the wind

Hob lurches from the darkness, as if floating on the breeze

The horses lost unto the night, the terrified coachmen flees

Clothes as black as Whitby jet, a gaunt and dishevelled figure

Beware Hob Headless, be not careless

When you're travelling Neasham bound

Beware Hob Headless, for he is restless

When you return to Hurworth town

Night upon night he feeds

Trick after trick he seeds

Until too many travellers bleed

A wizened and hollow spectre, arms too long for his squat body

Buried under a great stone; his woes never felt again

For all that sit upon this stone; will never be free again

In 99 years and a day; he will rise again

And peace will be ruined; he will rise again