In the nights black heart And storms of winter. We ride to Badbury rings, To fight or die With blood etched on our blades And the pain of "spears" Under dragons billowing wings To fight or die The Ancient Tribes are as one With the hornbearers call and the sound of ripping mail The gods give us the joy to k** and k** again This vile sweet stench of the battles clodded earth A dreadful waring gale, of reeking rusted glaive Of mongrel Saxon dead, and bloody faces stained Of broken shield walls and broken mighty oaths Hewed battle shields and shivered ashen spears And the horror of disgrace that cowards must embrace Is there's for evermore, a curse of their fallen race. The Ancient Tribes are as one Our age has just begun Now let it be done, the will of the gods be done.