Still On Patrol

Can you hear the whispers brought on by the wind storming? Carried true by the harpers, the tale the howls are forming? Came a knock at the farmer's door, a mailed fist with a fate to turn. A sob, a wail, a call to war, a boy, a son, home soon to yearn. Soon a soldier strode from youth, to the beat of the king's drum. A shield his hide, a sword his tooth, his pack stood the night to come. Oh for the heroes of men, the ones who hold the line - oh for the kin behind, the ones who hold to hope. Silence broke to a thunderous horn, the battle joined with the savage horde. On a bloody tide he thus was borne, death he granted and fury he roared. Silence returned with a blade's sigh, sanguine as it was ripped away. A keen, a dirge, a mother's cry, a man, a son, home soon to lay. Oh for the heroes of men, the ones who hold the line - oh for the kin behind, the ones who hold to hope. A place to rest he was given, a peace he has not taken. To guard, to serve he is driven, his will, his resolve unshaken. So when you see a warrior's mound, shed not a tear to hear the bugle - hark rather the marching sound, for he yet walks the vigil.