O, how frantic do thine fields grow!
Reeds whisper tales of Death below.
Flare up long ceased primordial Feuds
In keeps where Silver-tongued Lords seek refuge.
Persuade their masses to rage for rage’s sake
So that Tudor’s rose may have the Crown to take.
In East Brittany where iron-clad nobles ride;
“Haste to Burgundy!” they cry.
Horses stamp paths to Philip’s demise
And Fear lays claim in young men’s eyes
For ne’er was such Tragedy breathed by Man,
Or Evil curses cast throughout the land
Henry’s rally to Agincourt
Evoking demons from Hell’s door.
And length and breadth of Sword and Shield
Rain down upon thy wretched field.
From whence these Evils came to break
And steal thy Soul for icy Lake
The Blades of metal cut down their foes;
The Blades of green turned Crimson shows
That babes in quiet towns shall cry.
For fallen Fathers, too, shall ride
Into the depths of Erebus,
With souls on steeds, pray noble and just.
But where hath these years brought this war?
Onto pages in books of Lore?
In memories held by castle walls?
That which leads to a Monarch’s fall?
Spared of Anjou’s ruthless Hands,
Deliver’d into Holy Lands.
So ride on, o forsaken Knight
‘Til you can see the beacon light
Of St. Peter’s pearly Gates,
And there a haven for thee waits
Rest thy labored Soul in Peace,
Allow thy weary brow to cease.