A TALE FROM THE DEEP WOODS
Vamos ahora con una banda cuya concepción musical es muy personal y mezcla elementos del black metal con una influencia de la manera de componer del power metal de corte digamos "épico", todo ello envuelto en un manto sinfónico que hace de su sonido, como digo, algo muy personal. La banda es de origen británico y llevan en activo desde finales de los 80 aunque su estatus actual parece estar poco claro, de momento no se han separado pero desde 2006 no editan material nuevo.A lo largo de su carrera, la banda ha editado un total de seis LP's aunque su periodo de mayor actividad se centra entre los años 1995 y 2001, donde editan 5 de los seis citados larga duración. Como digo, desde 2006 no editan material nuevo pues ese es el año de lanzamiento de su último album, "Chthonic Chronicles". Hoy quiero dejar en el blog un tema del tercer LP de la banda, titulado "Battle magic", del año 1998, una obra con todos los ingredientes de la banda, una de mis preferidas junto con su debut, y del que hoy quiero dejar la canción "A tale from the deep woods", de la que dejo un enlace a youtube.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5r9PoGewraI
The ravens are on the wing!
My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors),
The ravens are on the wing,
By Offa's decree I am an outlaw,
Branded wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ash for our spear-hafts,
Yew for our bow-staves,
Oak for our deck planks,
Oak and elder our shields.
Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the
arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of
life's bitter-sweet draught...
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds),
To slake your roots, great old king... (As I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel,
And two score slain earns royal ire.
Gwynned lies two days westwards,
Still further south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour,
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.
The ravens are on the wing!
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary,
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
Than the healing balms of English trees?
The ravens are on the wing!
By Nash
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5r9PoGewraI
The ravens are on the wing!
My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors),
The ravens are on the wing,
By Offa's decree I am an outlaw,
Branded wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ash for our spear-hafts,
Yew for our bow-staves,
Oak for our deck planks,
Oak and elder our shields.
Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the
arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of
life's bitter-sweet draught...
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds),
To slake your roots, great old king... (As I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.)
The ravens are on the wing!
Ten leagues ride on lathered steed,
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire,
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel,
And two score slain earns royal ire.
Gwynned lies two days westwards,
Still further south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour,
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.
The ravens are on the wing!
I give you my hail,
I give you my blood,
I give you my life,
O' sylvan liege.
Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary,
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead,
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more,
Than the healing balms of English trees?
The ravens are on the wing!
By Nash
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