Gaily gallant, ride forth over the mountains beat by the rough winds of may,
Ride past the islands and towns in which you can’t stay.
Let the breeze kiss thee face, on thou journey, thou journey home,
And wear the mud proudly on the only clothes thou own.
Keep thy sword sharp and wits sharper, to succumb thy loathsome enemies,
Curse the gales and rough waters of Poseidon which through thee across the sea,
Oh, the stories in which the beggars and sirens will tell once thou reach home,
Pride, fame, reuniting with thy patient wife all of the fortunes thou will own.
Don’t be dazed by the beautiful immortals who call thou name,
And hold strong on your little fragment of hope to keep you sane,
Let the birds sing righteous songs on thou journey home,
Return to the patient wife, and reclaim the thrown in which you own.