Down on the Long Lake,
Whose waters run deep and sing bold,
Where winds travel over the land in howl,
That cast over the land a shroud of snow.
Deep are the waters of the Lake,
that sheltered us from the scourge,
Once broken by long mighty wing,
Forever lie at the bottom of the waves,
reduced to nothing but snow-coloured bone.
Long is the history of the Lake-Men,
Whose houses float across the waves
Of their watery abode.
Far too few remember, how they once fought monster,
Sword clashed tooth, and arrow met scale,
The cries of “Dale!” rang loudly,
Before fire turned the battle sour.
Without that arrow of fateful make,
Whose creator is now forgotten,
That scourge of fire would still be free.
However, the Bane of Dale,
With fiery breath and claw crimson-red,
Could not stand the might
Of the dark waters of the Lake.
The fires over the Lake have ceased long ago,
Rolling far into the depths of the reeds.
Smoke billows only from the huts of the Lake-men,
sitting quietly in their homes.
Yet when they are called to War,
The feared will quake at the passing,
Of the strength of the Lake.
