Oft the pale cold chill of dawn
Lingers in this land,
And if I died then who should mourn,
For I live by the sword in my hand.
Ere the curtain of night is sweapt
O’er the field and the plain,
The songs by fire reveal secrets kept,
And still no one understands my pain.
And harsh may I seem, to stranger and friend,
I cannot liveth so this life,
And ever will I live and die to the end,
And fall on their self inflicted strife.