Run through the woods.
Send a man to alarm.
The time is near, our foes will come.
You know that we must defend
the power hidden in our camp.
Go with fury, go with haste.
You know the message, don't be late.
There will be nothing left to defend.
If we don't stop this coming end.

Barricade the doors
and light up the torches.
Let us hear the horns,
let them hear they don't belong here.
Throw back their bones
and burn up their clothes.
Let us hear the horns,
let them hear they don't belong here.

We are the Kings of our land.
Traitors will be buried by our hands.

Be calm, be still, and listen to the drums of the coming war.
With marching steps they arrive at our fields.
In the slumber of the sun, they crawled into our camp
and stole our symbol of honour, traitors!

In the dark we will find the shades that hide the light,
and the memory of the old way of time.
Now that we have been blessed and our spirits again shine,
we must answer the call of the hand of time.