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Gloranthan Folk Tales
| Men of Furthest, march to glory,
Dark-eyed Death is waiting for ye,
Damned Stormwinds hover o'er ye:
Hear ye not its call?
At your sloth it seems to ponder:
Let thy death cry peal like thunder,
Burst their horned helms asunder,
Every foe appal!
From the rocks rebounding,
Let the war cry sounding
Summon all, at Emperor's call,
Our Stormwind foe surrounding.
Men of Furthest, on to glory!
See, your standard famed in story
Waves these burning words afore ye:
"Furthest scorns to yield!"
'mid the fray, see dead and dying,
Friend and foe together lying;
All around, the rune-spells flying
Scatter sudden death!
Maddened steeds are wildly neighing,
Brazen trumpets hoarsely braying,
Wounded men to standards praying
With their parting breath!
See: they're in Disorder!
Comrades, keep close order!
Ever they shall rue the day
They crossed our glowing border!
Now Orlanthi flee before us;
Crimson Crescent floateth o'er us!
Raise the loud exulting chorus,
"Furthest wins the field!"
Tune: Men of Harlech
Words: Mark Robins and MOB
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The contents of this page are copyright
by Nick Brooke
, 2001; any material
derived from Greg Stafford's world of Glorantha is also copyright by Greg
Stafford. Glorantha is the creation of Greg Stafford, and is used with