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The ravens are on the wing!
My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many mercian warriors),
the ravens are on the wing,
by offa&#39;s decree i am an outlaw,
branded wolfshead by my own king.
(the orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian )
The ravens are on the wing!
Ash for our spear-hafts,
yew for our bow-staves,
oak for our deck planks,
oak and elder our shields.
Hail, o&#39; great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest you,
who were reigning o&#39;er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the arrogant
men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of life&#39;s
bitter-sweet
I give you my hail,
i give you my blood,
i give you my life,
o&#39; sylvan liege.
My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds), to slake
your roots, great old (as i rest my battle-ravaged body against
thee.)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,
a blood-eagle carved by saxon steel,
and two score slain earns royal ire.
Gwynned lies two days westwards,
still further south, the weregeld calls.
mayhap with all-father woden&#39;s favour,
my deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Litha&#39;s moon gleams high o&#39;er the tallest oak,
ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
the wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
as i pull two mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.
The ravens are on the wing!
I give you my hail,
i give you my blood,
i give you my life,
o&#39; sylvan liege.
Beneath the oak, i rest, bone weary,
thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
and yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
than the healing balms of english trees?
The ravens are on the wing!

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