O’er the hills of red,
Where words of wise are rarely said,
A tribe of knights began to stir,
When at once they did concur,
The wall of the hill was in their way,
Their land invade, cursed by day.
Swords and spears of silver they forged,
As the bread of the barley seeds they gorged,
Steeds of pigs and ponies they ride,
As they charge the north hillside.
For the knights of the wall,
Could hear their call,
bows of oak they ready,
Daggers drawn and stance unsteady,
With a swift and utter swing,
The blackened arrows of stone they sling.
As the volley hit the meadow of red,
The tribe upon their steeds they sped,
The knights of the valley, rapid they ride,
Had raised their spears and loudly then cried,
“To the wall! To the wall of the hill!
Tear it down! Tear it down we will!”
As the knights of the wall heard this they did,
Turn towards brother and goodbye they bid,
For as they speak,
The tribe did sneak,
Upon that wall, great wall of the hill,
Their greed alone, it would fulfill.
As the tribe had climbed the top of the wall,
The soldiers then had shot them all,
With bows drawn back and arrows none,
The fight was over and had been won,
Their cries for help had been a trick,
To invite them in and fell them quick.
And as the fight conclude,
Spirits lift and ale renewed,
The knights of the wall,
Had slain them all,
Without effort or work,
For no threat on the valley for knights did lurk.