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Sacred water flows,
Through the veins of our sacred land,
Drink of this and take thy fill,
For the water falls by the wizards will.

Old man of the forest,
Cloaked in the lore of the land,
Loyal guardian,
Of our fog smothered isle.

Among the contorted roots,
Of English Oaks,
In the caverns of the northern kingdom,
Dwells the sleeping army.
Here they lie,
In enchanted sleep,
Awaiting the day,
When England is in peril.

Old man of the forest,
Cloaked in the lore of the land,
Loyal guardian,
The ghost of heritage.

Thence shall they descend,
Into the plain,
To decide the fate,
Of a great battle,
And save our homeland,
From the thieving hands,
Of the infidel.

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