We are the sons of witches, and we are the daughters of Hell,
And we are the feral children of powers ancient and fell;
And once we sang the death-songs, and beat the chanter’s drum,
And once we read the entrails to speak of days to come,
And once were wed to the Gods, and danced to the music of bells,
And once we spoke with Their voices and carried fire through sacred fells.
And we were the Outside children, and always the first to die
When the trees of God were uprooted and the crosses raised to the sky,
And for the honor of pirate-princes were we cast out, our power spurned;
And for the good of the Order, upon our own fires we burned;
And for the king and the petty chieftain, we were branded a threat and a curse,
And hounded and raped and hunted all o’er the face of the earth;
For we are a people hard-hunted, and our lives they call foul deeds,
And for a thousand years they’ve buried us, but I rede ye: We are seeds.
And the years have rolled ever onward, and for us all stays the same,
As they drive us out of our houses and they play the most dangerous game;
And we cry out for aid and for comfort as our dead we’re piling high,
And they spit in our plague-ravaged faces and they laugh as they watch us die.
But we are a people apart, an Other in deed and in name,
And I rede ye: We are stronger; our heritage, power and fame.
And we are a tribe ourselves; our ways and our laws, our own,
And if ever we know our strength, then the kings shall shake on their thrones;
For we are born unto strife and struggle, and each of us hardened in war,
And for each of us they silence, they miss yet a thousand more.
For we are the sons of witches, and we are the daughters of Hell,
And we are the feral children of powers ancient and fell,
And we have no need of their ways, as one to another we stand,
No need for those powers that loathe us, should we face them hand-in-hand;
And our ways and our laws are our own, and we’ll remember the blood that we’ve shed,
We ourselves have succored the dying,
We ourselves have buried the dead.