A land all consumed to satisfy the gluttony of Kings;
And stilled blood of brethren in tankards for his Court.
We fight for England to be free from this tyranny;
One soul to be truly damned, and Naseby his road to agony.
Heaven sent but wild of eye the steaming horse returned;
Stubborn lines cut down and blue boys scattered to the winds.
Aithon strikes across the field, the mist knitting with his tail;
Returning to the horizon, dragging rising souls to their ever after.
Broken ranks, our routed brothers standing in ragged bloodied azure;
Colours dropped and muddied, some torn and worn as bandages.
A rhythm of defeat beaten with the throwing down of weapons;
And then a rising shrill of carrion crows for the promised feast.
In the distance, a volley of musket fire, I espy a final defiant stand;
My Lord Halifax, his temper high and mercy low, makes quick their end.
I would follow him to hell without fear, indeed today I know this truth;
The death of a demonic King holds no trouble for my soul.
My breath has returned, and in my blood no longer do I feel the burn;
I lift my helmet, and cold winds are welcome across my burnished face.
I hear the chimes of battle, as sea in a shell, and the stink of death is my air;
As demons seek their final play on this wicked day.
The bleeding fields of Naseby are cleared of the dying but not the dead;
It is a Royal shame to see the poor in need of corpses to live.
But when you have seen killed men feasted by badger and fox;
The loss of a dulled blade, torn cloth and worn leathers, is no sin at all.
All the men I have known in life stood beside me in this field today;
To take comfort I look for familiar faces but none will be the same.
As victors we stand but we are scarred with iron and fear;
We are changed but is not all England? Do not let this be in vain.