You made us champions, with words of gold:
The bold, the few, who faced the fallen horde.
Return from all despair, your songs foretold;
In every sacrifice, you saw reward.
You spoke, and we were what we had to be:
Meek supplicants in honest need of aid;
Young rogues in eager search of villainy;
A fighting force, whose terms would be obeyed.
In nothing foreign could you find surprise;
You knew the nature of our every foe,
Could read their loves and terrors in their eyes,
And, with their form and tongue, amongst them go.
Your grave shall bear no sword, for, at the end,
You laid it down to meet them as a friend.
Jenkins Rising 