The Altene soldier's marching song, in as many verses as Quint could remember while not marching or drinking. Sung as more of a chant or shout, to the sound of stamping (marching) feet.
(Chorus)
[Oh you men, raise up your swords,
And flirt with Lady Death.
Spin and turn, dance and burn,
To the final, gasping breath.]
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
And Altenes more than most.
They'll slash out yer guts, cut off yer head,
An eat yer eyes poached on toast!
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
And no one can say it is other.
No one's as scary, as gory, as hairy,
'Cept maybe his dear old mother!
(chorus)
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
And they fight hard and drink hard as well.
Next time you see 'em, scream out an flee 'em,
They're bringin you nine kinds a Hell!
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
None of 'em knows other ways.
They'll kidnap yer daughter, commit bloody slaughter,
An gleefully do it fer pay.
(chorus)
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
An none may say to him nay.
He'll march all night, at dawn he'll fight,
An wench tha rest a tha day!
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
He's quick with tha wine and a laugh.
No he can't dance, nor speak sweet romance,
But tha ladies love his fangstaff!
(chorus)
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
And no one can raise more Hades.
Ain't got no charm, he'll break yer arm,
But his big spear's tha love a tha ladies!
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
It's all he ever can be.
At dawn he's a warrin, night before, he's a scorin',
Every woman'll kiss him fer free!
(chorus)
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
An their women shout an fight.
They don't want gentle, nor sentimental,
They want a man fighting all night!
Every man-soldier's a son of a goat,
An tha weaker ones all get tha boot.
Tha women all cheer when tha soldiers march near,
With their spears all raised in salute!
(Chorus)
[Oh you men raise up your swords,
And flirt with Lady Death.
Spin and turn, dance and burn,
To the final, rattling breath.
To the final, rattling breath.]