Above the battlefield she waits on carrion wings
Wrapped in the cloak of the gathering storm
War drums and battle cries, these hymns are raised on high
The screams of men and the sound of the horns
Music of madness, she steps to the measure
Calling the tune of a deadly pavanne
Lady of the Battlefield, Queen of the warrior band
Flame hair and blood red hand, she is The Morrigan
On wings of war and death, she stoops to claim her prize
Taking her choice of the pick of the slain
Berserker fury falls on those who heed her call,
Goddess of darkness and terror and pain
Chained by their fear are the ones who oppose her
Sister to Furies that none can withstand
And the rivers of blood
Run through her hands
She is The Morrigan
Beside the fire she sits in robes of tattered grey
She and her sisters, the handmaids of fate
Shape shifted ancient hag, crow-black and raven-wild
She casts the runes of destruction and hate
Washing the clothes of the damned and the dying
Shaping men's future since conflict began
She is the cleansing flame from which we rise again
Under the waning moon, triumphant and free
And when all hope is gone and pity lingers on
She is the killing stroke that ends misery
Bringing release from the sorrow and suffering
Mercy that only the dead understand
She is..... she is......she is The Morrigan
