|Dark broadsword, my tacit friend,
We have no time to wait for fortune,
We have no time to make researching -
And no way out in the end.
My tabard seems to turn to dust,
My maple pipe is close to cleavage.
My soul's like ember, cooling fast
In tiny hut of woodsy village/
I would not spend my living
In donnish dotage and disfavour!
I would not see my armour's mends!
I would not live as fired sailor!
I want so much to fight again
On sandy tiltyard, flat and spotless.
I want to fall on yellow sand
And let the monks sing sadly long Mass: