The Hall of the Slain

I open my eyes and raise up my head, as sunlight streaks through windows up high,

A horn lays on it's side at my feet, in a puddle of ale gone awry,

A hand to my face and a song to my head, I think back to the night before,

A war-band of brothers on benches of oak, with drinking and feasting galore

Following hours of sword upon shield, a day spent in battle upon our fields,

Coated in mail on our backs and our chests in iron and leather we warriors are dressed,

A glorious carnage til sunset we fight, but most men have fallen long before night,

Their bodies lie broken, their fingers are cold, no longer gripping the weapons they hold

The victors of the day, weary arms and splintered shields, as the sky turns gray,

Marching now to home, Odin's hall atop the hill to drink their wounds away,

Filling their horns with ale and with mead,

Home to Valhalla,

Filling their tankards with more than they need,

Their ranks never smaller,

For those who were felled since the start of the day,

Maybe tomorrow their defeat they'll repay,

They awaken that night with their bodies restored,

They'll return to the battle with axe and with sword,

The hall of the slain,

We'll battle again,

And drink ever after,

The hall of the slain,

The warrior's domain,

Filled with song and laughter,

Horns overflowing with ale and with mead,

Here in Valhalla,

Boasting their victories and glorious deeds,

Their hearts will never falter,

They will remain til the end of days,

Til Bifrost breaks and the sky is ablaze,

Til Gjallarhorn sounds and they call on their pride,

The warriors of Valhalla will make their last ride