Songs of our Ancestors

March o’er the fields and strike upon the shield.
March o’er the Fields of Devastation.
You bring the spears, and I’ll bring the grog,
’Til we are singing the songs of our ancestors.

You scale the walls while I take the gate,
And the tower will be a ruin before morning.
We’ll cut down the men and ride all the maids,
’Til they are singing the songs of our ancestors.

She was quite a lass though not quite a maid;
Her temper, like her locks, a conflagration.
She rode me all night long til her fire lit my heart,
And I left to sing the songs of our ancestors.

To the tune of The Bonnie Banks O’Loch Lomond: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uZ-p-tN8Gs

Songs of our Ancestors

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