War Party

While far behind our hearths and halls
are fire-warm and woman-rich,
the icy rain shakes down in squalls
that holler like a banshee bitch.
No giving up, no turning in,
no time to worry or wonder;
just grit your teeth and take it straight,
and shake your fist at the thunder.

With miles to go through muck and mire, 
the sickle moon rides high in the night;
a silver splinter of Heaven's fire,
a wink of God's eye, burning bright.
No time to sleep, no time to dream,
no peace for the man that wallows;
no doubt for him it will be grim
when he meets with the One that follows.

Raise your shields against the storm, boys,
Drive on, be hale and hearty;
the eyes of your women keep you warm, boys,
Ride on, as one, war party.

The hills are hard and the weather evil
but soon we'll see that dawn of gold 
that stirs our hearts and drives the Devil
back to his dark, deep-harrowed hole.
The sun will rise and bless your eyes
just when your hopes had dwindled;
and those who were slain will rise again
in the stars, their brave hearts kindled.