Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Smell That?

 That's the smell of Fall and with Fall comes Quidditch!

Speed bonnie broom, like a bird on the wing
Onward the fans cry
Carry the team that was born to be king
Over the sea to Skye

Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes, stand by the shore
Follow they will not dare

Many's the player fought on that day
Well the claymore did wield
When the night came, silently lain
Exhausted on Culloden field

Though the winds blow, soft will ye land
Pride’s a royal team
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by your weary fans

Burned are our brooms,
Exile and death
Scatter the loyal players
Yet e'er the sword cool in the sheath
Pride will come again.