Whilst the savage night freezes me beards, Outside the mongrels howl, athirst for man stock, And the bastard Romans hasten near to rout me camp.

Yet the coals glow hot, the shivers cease; The elk-skin of me tent holds well the heat; The mead in me goblet enkindles mine belly.

Ye art the coals, ye art the tent and ye art the mead in the night of cold.

Every smolder of ye lights mine torch to burn the huts of louts; Inside of ye shelter I drum out badger brains to brew in me stew; Each drink of ye enboldens the grip upon me sacking-axe.

Thine blaze shalt thaw the frost of this hinterland, Thine refuge shalt grant asylum from the howling mongrels, And with thine liquid courage, I shalt pillage Roman women and ye affection the same.

And the same, the warmth of ye affection shalt mine heart ransack. ARGHHHH!