The ravens are on the wing!My scramasax is red
(stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors),
The ravens are on the wing,
By Offa's decree I am an outlaw,
Branded wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)The ravens are on the wing!Ash for our spear-hafts,
Yew for our bow-staves,
Oak for our deck planks,
Oak and elder our shields.Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before
the arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island
ever supped of life's bitter-sweet draught...I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.My life bleeds forth unto the earth
(from many deep and dire wounds),
To slake your roots, great old king...
(as I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.)The ravens are on the wing!Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel,
And two score slain earns royal ire.Gwynned lies two days westwards,
Still further south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour,
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.The ravens are on the wing!I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary,
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
Than the healing balms of English trees?The ravens are on the wing!