There's many a tale about women who wail:
I'll tell, since you're strange to the Montana range . . .
Now one-hundred years have passed, but the fears
Galloping hooves you will hear, and a ghost will appear
She shrieks and she screams, tries to frighten it seems,
  © Buckshot Dot 2000
La Llorona and women in white;
But haunting my dreams is the woman who screams
Down the windways on cold winter nights!
Where the wind and the scream intertwine, Sir,
Of a phantom who rides her black horse astride,
With her long black hair streaming behind her.
Continue right up to this day, Sir.
An old superstition says her apparition
Appears if you travel that way, Sir.
Riding wild on the wind; and her gaze, Sir,
Brings a morbid malaise, for her eyes are ablaze
And they'll haunt you the rest of your days, Sir.
Every traveler who comes round the place, Sir.
And if you should try, why, it's sure you will die!
And her black hair will cover your face, Sir.