We March on Empty Boots | Battle Hymn by Silas Halfpenny

An original bardcore battle hymn — medieval fantasy folk, sung by Silas Halfpenny. A ragged Levy climbs a hill at dawn with no shield, no cause and no coin; when their drummer falls, they carry his beat on the stamp of their own boots. We march on empty boots. From the songbook of Silas Halfpenny, entry the fifth. They gave us a drum, a hill, and no reason worth the telling, and I'll not pretend I asked for one. We were what the king could spare — a debtor, a farmhand, a thief, and a bard with no sword and a song he hadn't finished. You count your steps on a climb like that; it's kinder arithmetic than the other kind. Young Emrys kept our time until he couldn't, and then we kept it for him on the only drum we had left, which is to say our own boots. Don't ask me who came back down. I never had the head for sums. Someone kept your beat the year you had none. Go keep someone's. — Silas Halfpenny ━━━━━━━━━━ LYRICS ━━━━━━━━━━ They gave us a drum, a hill to climb, and no good reason why. We're no king's men — we're what he could spare: a debtor, a farmhand, a thief; our boots worn thin as a beggar's prayer, and a drum with a crack down its cheek. We don't count what waits at the top — we count our steps, and we count them low: one for the mud, two for the cold, three for the road we won't walk home. We march on empty boots and a borrowed drum, we keep the count so we don't count the cost; no shield, no cause, no coin, no reason why — we're what the king could spare, and what he lost. (Left! Right! Left!) WE MARCH ON EMPTY BOOTS Old Tam walks on a flapping sole and a joke he's worn as thin; young Emrys beats the cracked old drum and swears we're going to win. I've no sword to lend you, lads — I've a song, and I'll sing it true: known by his boots and his worst old joke, for a named man's harder to lose. We march on empty boots and a borrowed drum, we keep the count so we don't count the cost; no shield, no cause, no coin, no reason why — we're what the king could spare, and what he lost. (Left! Right! Left!) WE MARCH ON EMPTY BOOTS Young Emrys is down, and his drum's gone still. No time to weep — and he'd not want us to. So we don't break step, and we don't fall out: we take up his beat on the boots of the crew. We march on empty boots and a borrowed drum, we keep the count so we don't count the cost; no shield, no cause, no coin, no reason why — we're what the king could spare, and what he lost. (Left! Right! Left!) WE MARCH ON EMPTY BOOTS We came up the hill on a dead man's beat, on boots worn thin and a drum with no head... and if you're counting who came marching back, well — I never had the head for sums. But the drum still keeps, in the stamp of us: one for the mud, two for the cold... ...three for the road we won't walk home.