The stiff bow is strung and ready,
Its timbre limbs are taut,
The warlike hand is strong and steady,
The foe waits to be fought.
The horn sounds from the far-flung field
Where banners race to meet
The glory that our fate has sealed
Come triumph or defeat.
Arrows rattle in the quiver
And the warsongs are sung,
But nothing can quell the shiver
By which my heart is strung.
The battle that awaits is not the one I grieve,
The battle that I fear is the battle to leave.