It would have been said all the warriors are dead,
And the sword and the bow laid aside;
No more dragonships brave on the cold northern wave
And the last noble knight long since died.
In the ground where they lay, the swords rusted away
In the skeletal hands of the brave.
They had courage and skill, but the earth had its will.
It seemed honor was lost to the grave.
And the legends of old, of great heroes so bold
Became tales just for children not men:
Tales of how swords did ring, and the worth of a king -
Times the legends said would come again.
For the soul of the brave does not rest in the grave
And it looks at the world through new eyes,
And his hands long to feel of the hilt of his steel.
Mourns the sword in the grave where it lies.
So the warrior born views the new world with scorn
And he makes his old world come alive:
Lives with honor, and sord, and the strength of his word,
And in him all the dreams still survive.
Thought the old days are done, and this time of the gun
Leaves no room for the Chivalric Dream,
Still the spirit survives, and it changes men's lives
And it makes of them more than they seem.
For the heroes long dead rise from their stony bed
And their ghost voices join in our song;
And their shades fill our hall, and we drink to them all
And to their dream that lived for so long.
For we are their kin; and what we here begin
Will live on while men's spirits are free.
And the truth that they sought, and the dreams that they brought
Make of of more than we thought to be.
For the grave does not hold onto spirits so bold,
And we still seek the dream and the song -
Hold the honor, and trust, and the sword that was rust
Will rise up again... bright, sharp and strong!
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