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My King Has Called and I Must Go

What weather this? 'Tis like St. Martin's sun
That easily dispels the breath of winter.
I fain these days will bear his martial calling.
The wolf is roused and fills the night with howls;
My royal king, God keep him, does the same.
He summons men to war; I among them.
Unnatural this fear that pales my face
When glory calls! My blade has struck the pell.
My sword has spent its edge 'gainst flesh before,
Yet now a strange affliction haunts my eyes.
O, exorcise these thoughts that taint my mind!
Did Roland shrink before the Saracens?
Or Arthur tremble when he faced the spear?
No! Courage was their banner. Now, 'tis mine!
This spirit I shall banish from my heart
And should the pale-faced demon come again,
I'll tear the argent wolf that marks my chest
And names my homeland glorious Ealdormere!
I'll bear that shame until I wash the stain
Upon my honour's cloth with foeman's gore,
And leave my scarlet tabard painted fresh.
If I should fall then weep no tears but blood
That they should mourn a thousand where I lay!
While drums still sound, my sword will keep the field.
I shall not leave lest carried on my shield!