(Spoken Lyrics) The ravens are on the wing! My scramasax is red The ravens are on the wing By Offa's decree I am an outlaw Branded wolfshead by my own king 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 I give you my hail I give you my blood I give you my life O' sylvan liege Ash for our spear-hafts Yew for our bow-staves Oak for our deck planks Oak and elder our shields My life bleeds forth unto the earth To slake your roots, great old king My life bleeds forth unto the earth To slake your roots, great old king 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 My life bleeds forth unto the earth To slake your roots, great old king My life bleeds forth unto the earth To slake your roots, great old king 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 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 I give you my hail I give you my blood I give you my life O' sylvan liege 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! (Full Lyrics) The ravens are on the wing! My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors) The ravens are on the wing By Offa's decree I am an outlaw Branded wolfshead by my own king (The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...) 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 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... I give you my hail I give you my blood I give you my life O' sylvan liege My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds) To slake your roots, great old king... (as I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.) 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!