by Jacob Hayward of the House Of Glass
Chorus And the shores of old Albion we’re leaving behind,
The dim lights of Pendrinn are fading away,
When we reach the battlefield, how will we find,
Life on a footsoldier’s pay, sergeant?
Life on a footsoldier’s pay?
From the ships to the shoreline we haul ourselves on,
Through waves up the beaches our swords in our hands,
The enemy’s kind – he’s brought archers along,
And it’s a soft bed where each of us lands, sergeant,
A soft bed where each of us lands.
Now proud Albion stands on the bands of the Rhine,
Her forces drawn up, banners raised up on high,
With a call from the trumpets the water turns wine
Richer than money can buy, sergeant,
Richer than money can buy.
With a handful of warriors we hear Rouen’s bells,
We’ve driven on further than our dead would have dreamed,
They lie in piles broken by Lyonesse spells
Yet this morning how lively they seemed, sergeant,
This morning how lively they seemed.
We’re trapped in our hundreds near the mountain of snakes,
Surrounded by demons their skin all aflame
When the earth starts to tremble as the mountaintop breaks
And the dead ride to join in our game, sergeant,
The dead ride to join in our game.
Deep under the palace we see the dead rise,
And shining amongst them a man bright with gold,
Now none of us think we’ve a hope of blue skies
For the rest in this city lie cold, sergeant,
The rest in this city lie cold.
As crimson spreads over the dust of the plains,
We can’t move an inch or the foe wins the day,
As each brother is slaughtered there’s one thought remains
That’s one less to stand in their way, sergeant,
One less to stand in their way.