Put away the armor
in the upper branches of yon tree.
Sheathe the sword and shield
and hide them away.
Farewell faithful steed,
roam the wilds.
Be with your own
and I too shall hide.
In Richtersveld I shall be,
in the guise of a stranger.
I will mask the warrior’s face,
with the wiles of a peddler.
You could roam the steppes,
free as a mustang.
sans bridle, san saddler.
The enemy shall scour,
the continents and the seas.
Looking for hide or hair,
of you or me.
But hide we must,
biding our time.
To strike that blow,
at the end of exile,
deep in the enemy’s hind.
Find our true selves if they do,
within this two years due.
Must we then go into exile again,
doing the cycle anew.
For oath we have sworn,
over a lost game of dice.
In a tavern so vile,
filled with evil vice.
we lost all.
Kingdom, rank, file.
And all we have left,
is the bitter taste,
of beaten, scorned bile.
Sally forth we shall,
at the end of days,
and regain our lost victory.
And from the shores of
to the streets of
shall ring with “Semper Fi!”