Mertolda dan Schippt gallops out of the north
astride a fine grey of the Berenguild breed,
with a blade at her side she is flurrying forth;
As the road falls behind her
what promises blind her?
Which passions do bind her
to speed?
Dark hair in a skullcap still covers her head
as the hood of her mantle sails back from her speed,
and the drum of her passage might waken the dead;
Is the journey before her
still meant to restore her
while foes who'd deplore her
did bleed?
Her profile is hawken, her nose is a prow
and her eyes bid the hearts of the gentle to bleed,
as the cold whips a rose from her cheeks to her brow,
then her passing by frights you
or if it delights you
the hope of her plights you
indeed.
It's told in the inns that Mertolda dan Schippt
Has been seen on the plains as she seeks to enthral,
And the tale of her galloping's cold as the crypt,
For her days are behind you
Yet beauty shall blind you
And wonderment bind you
At call.
Mertolda dan Schippt has a tempest to ride
As she rips through the land at her destiny's call,
And I find myself yearning to be at her side,
With that journey before me
Could she but restore me
And never deplore me
At all?
And now shall I follow my heart or my mind?
Should I ponder the matter or wonder at all;
While the frost in my soul tells of chances declined
And their passing a'frights me
While danger delights me
And temptation plights me
I fall.
I shall follow Mertolda the centuries through
When I win me the get of a Berenguild mare,
I shall carry a blade that is granted to few
As the tales shall embrace me
None other replace me
Nor ever erase me
I swear.
astride a fine grey of the Berenguild breed,
with a blade at her side she is flurrying forth;
As the road falls behind her
what promises blind her?
Which passions do bind her
to speed?
Dark hair in a skullcap still covers her head
as the hood of her mantle sails back from her speed,
and the drum of her passage might waken the dead;
Is the journey before her
still meant to restore her
while foes who'd deplore her
did bleed?
Her profile is hawken, her nose is a prow
and her eyes bid the hearts of the gentle to bleed,
as the cold whips a rose from her cheeks to her brow,
then her passing by frights you
or if it delights you
the hope of her plights you
indeed.
It's told in the inns that Mertolda dan Schippt
Has been seen on the plains as she seeks to enthral,
And the tale of her galloping's cold as the crypt,
For her days are behind you
Yet beauty shall blind you
And wonderment bind you
At call.
Mertolda dan Schippt has a tempest to ride
As she rips through the land at her destiny's call,
And I find myself yearning to be at her side,
With that journey before me
Could she but restore me
And never deplore me
At all?
And now shall I follow my heart or my mind?
Should I ponder the matter or wonder at all;
While the frost in my soul tells of chances declined
And their passing a'frights me
While danger delights me
And temptation plights me
I fall.
I shall follow Mertolda the centuries through
When I win me the get of a Berenguild mare,
I shall carry a blade that is granted to few
As the tales shall embrace me
None other replace me
Nor ever erase me
I swear.