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(Spoken Lyrics) |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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My scramasax is red |
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The ravens are on the wing |
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By Offa's decree I am an outlaw |
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Branded wolfshead by my own king |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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Ash for our spear-hafts |
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Yew for our bow-staves |
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Oak for our deck planks |
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Oak and elder our shields |
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I give you my hail |
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I give you my blood |
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I give you my life |
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O' sylvan liege |
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Ash for our spear-hafts |
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Yew for our bow-staves |
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Oak for our deck planks |
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Oak and elder our shields |
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth |
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To slake your roots, great old king |
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth |
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To slake your roots, great old king |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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Ten leagues ride on lathered steed |
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Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire |
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A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel |
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And two score slain earns royal ire |
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth |
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To slake your roots, great old king |
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth |
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To slake your roots, great old king |
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Gwynedd lies two days westwards |
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Still further south, the weregeld calls |
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Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour |
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My deeds may yet inspire the skalds |
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Gwynedd lies two days westwards |
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Still further south, the weregeld calls |
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Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour |
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My deeds may yet inspire the skalds |
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Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak |
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Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew |
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The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole |
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As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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I give you my hail |
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I give you my blood |
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I give you my life |
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O' sylvan liege |
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I give you my hail |
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I give you my blood |
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I give you my life |
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O' sylvan liege |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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I give you my hail |
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I give you my blood |
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I give you my life |
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O' sylvan liege |
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Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary |
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Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead |
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And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more |
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Than the healing balms of English trees? |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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(Full Lyrics) |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
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My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors) |
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The ravens are on the wing |
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By Offa's decree I am an outlaw |
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Branded wolfshead by my own king |
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(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...) |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
|
Ash for our spear-hafts |
|
Yew for our bow-staves |
|
Oak for our deck planks |
|
Oak and elder our shields |
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Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest... you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of life's bitter-sweet draught... |
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I give you my hail |
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I give you my blood |
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I give you my life |
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O' sylvan liege |
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My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds) |
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To slake your roots, great old king... (as I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.) |
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The ravens are on the wing! |
|
Ten leagues ride on lathered steed |
|
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire |
|
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel |
|
And two score slain earns royal ire |
|
Gwynedd lies two days westwards |
|
Still further south, the weregeld calls |
|
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour |
|
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds |
|
Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak |
|
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew |
|
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole |
|
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews |
|
The ravens are on the wing! |
|
I give you my hail |
|
I give you my blood |
|
I give you my life |
|
O' sylvan liege |
|
Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary |
|
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead |
|
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more |
|
Than the healing balms of English trees? |
|
The ravens are on the wing! |
