Beat The Drum

The watchman paces nervously,
The talk is all of war,
Inside the hollow mountain's Hall of Stone.
Blade and bow as sharp as fear,
Dark whispers haunt the atmosphere,
And waiting side by side, we stand alone.

And we'll march on down from the Halls of Fable,
March, march, march cross the quaking land,
We'll march on down from the Halls of Fable,
On the Fields of Rhianna we make our stand.
And we'll march on down from the Halls of Fable,
March, march, march cross the quaking land,
We'll march on down from the Halls of Fable,
On the Fields of Rhianna we'll make our stand.

Will they come? Will they come?

You beat the drum for martyrdom,
As you sent us all to war,
Invoking gods and godless spirits of the past.
You wave the flag, the trumpets sound,
The roar of thousands shakes the ground,
Prepared to die if that is what you ask.