O Stalwart Foe! Thou budgest not.

E'en though beset by my onslaught

Thou standest firm and stedfast.

Raising now thy hand to return my lambaste

I stagger before thee, trembling 

'Neath the might of thy brutal swing.

 

O Stalwart Foe! though hither we duel

As equals, thine eyes shine forth ridicule

Unto my meagre frame before thine own,

Not unlike a little pebble to a giant stone.

The ears of the hills grow weary with report

Of our blades accruing stern rapport.

 

Shattered, my blade unto its hilt

Is spent; t'was vainly built 

For shall it now my life sustain 

Before thy brutal swing attain

The prize of my proud, haughty head?

For I'll ne'er surrender til I'm dead!

 

Thou standest above my fallen form

To observe the grevious wound I've borne

That thou hast dealt; lo! thou hast won

But though thou blockest out the sun,

Heark! and heed: thou hast defeated me,

But when my King rides, he rides for thee

 

I rest mine weary head in peace;

Thou takest it in dare

For wheresoever it cometh to lay

Mine Leige shall find it there