Welcome moving mass of seasoned men That face rain and the wildest storms Stoically with the same commotion of squashing a pile of worms We travel for miles. Miles, yards
Not a difference to us Upon our shoulders we carry this heavy fur Some may call us savages But wilder shall be their dread if we clash in battle
Set on a cloud of dust A line of warriors Cover the horizon
They march scattered No order is required To wreak havoc upon the puny Tentative threats
Combined with the dimness of the pale sun Reddened hair and beard Undulates to the omnipresent seashore winds Serpenting like the bowels of their victims
No one can tell Which will be their destination No living being can tell The destruction they're able to unleash
A rude strategy they apply to the battlefield The fundaments are basic To tame the flesh, rendering it apart
Three horns!
With pride they bear ornate shields Painted with an icon
