| Still I hear the old song,
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| it is sung by the birds and the leaves in the trees.
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| It is sung by the wind,
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| by the thunder and rain, by the waves in the seas.
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| It is sung by the merfolk, by gnomes and by dwarves,
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| in the rivers and mountains so deep;
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| it is sung by the fairies that dance in the woods,
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| it is sung where the unicorns sleep.
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| When the world was still young
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| and the weak race of man still had hearts true and proud,
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| Man did fight side by side
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| with the folk of the woods as an invincible crowd.
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| As a frightening army they rode through the mist,
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| with their weapon and shield by their side;
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| and the warrior’s song all the swordsmen did sing
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| as the black army rode in the night.
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| But the race of man’s weak
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| and it started to fight only for money and fame;
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| While the folk of the woods
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| fought for justice and truth, not for man’s greed and shame.
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| Thus the elves turned their back on man’s insanity
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| and the old friendship came to an end;
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| and the warrior’s song was forgotten by man,
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| who to gold and injustice did bend.
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| But I still hear the song
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| which is sung by the birds and the leaves in the trees,
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| which is sung by the merfolk,
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| by gnomes and by fairies in the mountains and seas.
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| And as long as my heart beats this song will be there,
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| for I know that the warriors still ride.
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| Yes, the race of man’s weak, but a few still remember
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| the old words of honour and pride. |