Death's Lovers

Death's Lovers is a song written by THL Finnbjorn Skeggason for the reign of King Thibault I and King Jayne I in A.S. 57. It was first performed at a bardic circle at Rowany Festival that year, and has since become a popular SCA song in Lochac.

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Lyrics:

Gather the spears, assemble the banners
With sword and with hammer, we're marching to war
Load up the train, then bring round the horses
Oh, such gallant forces, hath ne'er seen before

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me

Out on the field, the foemen stand ready
Their noble hearts heavy, 'ere the blood starts to flow
Would that we'd met round fire or table
And maybe been able the other to know

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me

Charge down the line, let's make a story
Of valour before we are laid in the ground
The honour is mine, that we fought together
Although we may never hear victory sound

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me

Hold your shields high, defending each other,
Till we lose another, and the bloodbath begins
Into the fray, I'll stand by your side
Until they've all died and the feasting begins

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me

Wade through the gore, claiming their colours
And burying brothers, my heart full of dread
Would that I’d died, and lain with the others
Than to see your dead eyes staring blankly ahead.

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me

So raise up a glass my sisters and brothers
Drink each to the other, and I'll drink to thee
When death walks the field and chooses her lovers
There's none that I'd rather have standing with me