Written & Performed by Her Majesty
Queen Marguerite Baum nee Valehaven of Chimeron
at Feast of Rhiassa IV
The nights are long, the winter chill,
The wind screams out its cry.
We gather in the flickering light
To hear the tales of times gone by.
A Prince will speak, a tale he'll spin
Of noble deeds long turned to dust;
We'll freshly mourn for times gone past,
For history's glory lost to us.
Where has honor gone? Where the belt?
That singly hung from noble waist?
Where once the aim of mighty men
Was simply seen and easily traced.
Where the vision, brightly shining?
Where the path so clearly laid?
Where our purpose pure and shared,
In blood and friendship equally paid?
Where the hallowed, hollowed hills
Where we were want to quest or sing?
Where the mirth and merriment
That made the timbered woodlands ring?
Where the bard whose chanting voice
Would stir the hearts of better men?
Where the verse and where the rhyme?
We'll never hear their like again.
Gone the mead-hall, gone the cup
The fire there has long been dead
And moss and lichen gather now
Where rightful rulers ably led.
Gone the field of clashing steel,
Where rivals met with open hand.
Gone the grace and gone the skill;
Now lesser men defend our lands.
Our brightest days are long behind us
The trust I placed in you is spent
Naught remains of our finest hour
But these my words of sad lament.
I'll not deny those days of glory
Have left their mark upon us all.
I will deny we've heard the last
Of honor's brilliant clarion call.
For at this hearth in friendship clasped
I see the same, no more, no less.
True heroes of our past would know
Our glory's now! Not lost to us!
For here sits Honor on his bench
And there is Vision's steady gaze
And in this breast does Duty live
In all our souls bright purpose blaze!
For when we stand to face the dark
The Realm's true strength is shown:
We keep alive the only hope
This tattered world has lately known.
The old ways are reborn in us,
Our story's not yet ended.
So, this bard will fire your noble hearts
To keep our Realms defended!
A golden age's not golden
From within its subtle glow
And we should not forget that
Midst the bitter frost and snow.