The Wardog's Lament.
By H. Patrick O.Connor
(A.K.A. Lord Patrick the Butcher)
Filk to The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Put my good blade upon my chest and lie me on my shield.
Bring forth a priest, I must confess; then bear me from the field
Forsworn was I to do or die, and never once did yield -
Now take my bones to Atenveldt, and rest me in her fields.
For ten long years stood I the watch; upon our borderlands.
And turned away in a hundred frays the foreign raiding bands
And I've campaigned with my good king full twenty times and one
Perhaps they'll right a song of me now that my end has come.
Mourn not for me my good comrades; weep not for me my love
My duties done, my bones at rest, my soul with god above
But gather here one time each year, from wither whence you roam
And drink a glass to me and mine, who died so far from home.
Remember me good Atenfolk, remember me and know
I gave my life in a foreign land that you'd stay safe at home
And to each man who takes up arms and off to battle goes
Give him the honor and respect that to the dead you owe
Put my good blade upon my chest, my hands grow cold and numb
And though these hands are laid to rest; by them the day was won
Now tell my love with my last breath I made her one oath more
That we'll be well met once again on heaven's shining shore.
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