A Tale From The Deep Woods — текст песни (Bal-Sagoth)

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.

Gwynned 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!