Lyrics for Helgafell – “Chronicles”.
I. The Harrying of the North
The ravaging of north lands,
a cleansing of folk,
a relenteless endeavor,
the English flame stoked,
subjucation by the sword,
a harrowing campaign,
to slaughter into submission,
the fair country waned,
a rebellion against tyranny,
a resistance of might,
alas for the kinsmen,
who fell from the plight,
the blood then spilled lingered,
a stench of defeat,
the bastard victorious,
crushed the retreat.
Winter came with renewed cold,
Oppressors carved the fields of old,
the Norman spear through every man,
the children left with wilted lands,
the north then trembled under he,
an evil will used callously,
Land laid waste and scorched alight,
suffering the conquerers blight,
seeds of England’s growth decayed,
Alfred’s line is doomed to fray,
whispers moving through the air,
warning of kingdom’s despair,
beholden to a tyrant’s will,
the tides of change that linger still,
Brittania fading.
Fair Albion, for long you’ve reigned,
a line left in the snow,
fair Albion, a lineage wanes,
as William takes his throne.
A noble age has ended,
sons on the pyres burning,
henceforth they’ll dwell in shadow,
a bleaker dawn unfurling.
II. The Bandit of the Marsh
Returning from marshlands,
to incite revenge,
a signal of union,
from coastline to henge,
a mustering of warriors,
a raising of fyrds,
a gathering kinsmen,
come all bear sword,
Months were spent waiting,
yearning from mind,
shadowed by defeats,
that lingered behind,
the bandit of wessex,
a vision instilled,
strong bonds held together,
empowered by will,
Stoodfast on Athelney’s grounds,
aiding a king to be crowned,
fulfilling a promise to rivals,
ensuring a bloodline’s survival,
he held sword to sky and proclaimed,
his lineage would not cower in shame,
justice within wisdom’s flame,
a leader to bear England’s name,
Ode to Wessex,
hallowed soil,
wield the burden,
through the toil,
Ode to the southlands,
sacred rites,
the aethling proved fruitful,
through crownless nights,
Flee no more,
son of the marsh,
viking’s bane,
flee no more,
may the wind now carry your name,
those noble shall follow,
those treacherous shall fade,
those fearless won’t fall,
they will fly the banner,
they will last the night,
they will reclaim all,
Wyvern’s walls,
hearth and all,
endless flame,
realm proclaimed.
III. The Council of Folly
Kingdom failing,
weakened at the heart,
the unready,
failed then by his court,
raiders rising,
once again to come,
grim filled tidings,
they would soon succumb.
Forkbeard mounts the shores,
wielding slaughter on the lands,
armed with kin and sword,
seizing power by his hand.
Divided kinsmen,
would bear witness to new rule,
Aethelred the unread,
the coward and the fool.
Before blood was spilled,
half had chose alliance,
with the ruler of the danish realm,
in steadfast, bitter defiance,
turning their back on the heptarchy,
the bloodline and the monarchy,
crafting, the ages, to come.
Southern lands overrun,
by Woden’s men and his sons,
freedom encumbered,
Albion fell,
a plunderer then beheld,
winds of change blowing,
Southern lands overrun,
by Woden’s men and his sons,
freedom encumbered,
Albion fell,
a plunderer then beheld,
failed by the council of scorn.
Fleeing to foreign shores,
the king seeks refuge afar,
abandoning his kin,
leadership left marred,
advised to return home,
to a realm in peril and withered,
a rule of English kings, left wholly disfigured.
Southern lands overrun,
by Woden’s men and his sons,
freedom encumbered,
Albion fell,
a plunderer then beheld,
winds of change blowing,
Southern lands overrun,
by Woden’s men and his sons,
freedom encumbered,
Albion fell,
a plunderer then beheld,
failed by the council of scorn.
IV. The Union of Kings
A union of three kings,
a force of ten thousand strong,
sharpen their blades,
travelling onwards, to the throngs of war,
Mustering the banners,
voyaging to the southern realms,
putting foot to the throat of English rule,
hail men at arms,
unification of northern lands,
late summer comes bloodshed,
ere winter comes for all.
Beckoning forth,
from Aethelstan’s court,
to noblemen far and wide,
No slaughter yet was greater made
e’er in this island,
of people slain,
before this same, with the edge of the sword
A clashing of thousands,
a meadow of red,
determines the future,
of kingdom’s stead.
No slaughter yet was greater made
e’er in this island,
of people slain,
before this same, with the edge of the sword
Kings lay dead in battle,
in bloom of youth,
a loss of sons and fathers,
a death of roots,
a fight of thousands,
a howling fire to clash,
albion in turmoil,
amidst the trees of ash.
