Old men tell of an ancient king
Who once did rule our sceptered isle.
He reigned for years
In peace and prosperity.
And when invaders came in ships
To steal what we had built,
The battle cry came from his lips
And his hand went to the hilt
Of his trusty sword.
Many foe-men he did beat,
And drove them back across the sea.
The enemy put to flight,
Attendants found him on the scene:
His heart pierced by an arrow,
But his countenance serene.
They laid him low beneath that crag,
To sleep, to sleep, until the hour
Of greatest need.
He rests there still,
But within the deep
A rumbling threatens his peace:
The march of foreign soldiers
Through the English countryside.
At the breaking of the dawn,
At the turning of the tide,
To blessed England's rescue he will ride.
Standing atop Dunnad at the green loch
King Arthur saw the end.
All of Alba filled with fiends,
in the future migrants will invade with sins.
He took to the hills and brought battle to demons.
He battles there still with Excalibur in hand
slaying Semitic heathens.
Using the ogham of Goidel Glas,
he writes his missives to the loyal
who can read the holy scratch.
Holy groves will whisper
to the sons of the Glas,
Arthur sends out his commands.
This he says like bold and brass:
“One day Alba will know redemption,
occupation will come to a bloody end,
the Gael will remember how to sing,
and mother Frya will breathe free.”