I
Unsheathe yer blades, draws dark this day;
they’ve come, who yearn to slaughter.
Be bold, me lads, we’ll make them pay
and see them, their hereafter.
We’ll welcome them with fusillades,
oblige them their deservings.
If breach the hordes our barricades,
lay pale their brutal yearnings.
With grit and grunt, we’ll blood this field,
rain fierce on their distempers.
Be fearless lads, yer wrath revealed
when render forth yer tempers.
Let howl, let loose yer bolts upon,
to smite or feel the sabre.
Let gorge the crows on carrion
if death so be our labour.
II
’Tis lost, me lads, our best we gave,
tend failings our endeavour.
Yield not yer ranks but fall ye brave
or find ye chained forever.
On cruelty, they’ll ne renege,
such makings their adventure.
They’ll rid our kin to blight and plague,
to famine and indenture.
III
Of empires won, hail, ‘Victory!’
who’ll hail the vile invaders?
Who’d dare rejoice such savagery,
go reap yer bloodied acres.