When Brigantia spoke her soul to me
Gone are the rustic summers of my youth
Heading to the bedding of her English shores
Now the tidal are turning churning in darkness
Shalt spill like wine from the hills to chines that pour
This is a waking for England
Drove the ghosts of my forbears
Lughnasadh to Samhain feasts
Together a chimerical beast
To rove and rally once more
Now the tidal are turning burning in darkness
Drones of carrion law
From Imbolg to Bealtaine
From Orient gates to R’lyeh
Cruel winters cut their sacred throats
Spreading her beheadings on these English shores
Abydos to Thessaly
This is a waking for England
Drones of carrion law
Come home to rebuild
Are but stills in time to the thrill that I’m once more
One of her sons from the vast far flung
The wind bickered in Satanic mill sails
With polished scythes that reap worldwide
For I yearn to return to woodland ferns
And Sirens sing from stern
But now I cease to play
Risen over pestilent fields
For the hosts that I saw there
From it’s reticent doze
Dreading the red weddings on her English shores
And mists clung tight in panic to vales
Eyes flickered in deep thickets of trees
To rove and rally once more
Now the tidal are turning, spurning the darkness
Where Herne and his wild huntress lay
The great purgations of distinguished tours
Pitch black skies and forest smoke
And the hosts that I saw there
Are but stills in time to the chill that climbs once more
The celebrations of extinguished wars
The salvation of her hungry sword
The rampant line of the Leonine
Drove the ghosts of my forbears
I heard her lament as season’s blent
