Much is lost in times of peace
As shepherds shear their flocks for fleece,
As farmers tiller and toil their soil
And kitchens bubble with pots O' boil.
The ways of war are best not forgotten
For sooner or later the barons boot
Shall have trodden,
Upon that farmers land.
Arm in arm and hand in hand
With brigands and brutes In armored hides of tan.

Though the pastures now lay golden
Beholden to the setting sun.
Keep your scabbard close,
Blade keen not blunt.
For far beyond yon neglected walls
The winds are rising,
The ocean's tidal breath
Brings tidings of war.
This time it may devour us all.