Through the rainy arch
With sweat and rain soaked
In clan plaids cloaked
They march, four men march
Through the hils and the marsh
Heaving with pride
Not meant for homeward stride
They march, four men march
Through the windy arch
Against them stands a king himself
He set out to punish the rebel serfs
They march on, they march free
Each of them followed by his army
Before the dusk falls upon the bog
Fresh wounds will with blood clog