Stoic and expressive are the bards of Hallifax,

Crystal instruments and lyrics so lax.

Operatic phrase and classical score,

Airy and sweet with placid encore.

In exclusive salons do they belong,

Not in battle, amidst the throng.

 

Ethereal notes attend the Spiritsinger tune,

Wildearrane strains by the weak light of Moon.

Rough, unpolished, ill-trained and unkempt,

To cover one’s ears does the melody tempt.

Swinging from trees do they belong,

Never in public, singing their song.

  

Rambunctious and Merry is the Minstrel’s tune,

With fire and passion their voices croon.

Rowdy and boisterous, chaos their boon,

Bizarre and strange, swaggering buffoon.

In noisy festivals do they belong,

In serious matters, they are all wrong.

 

The Cantors are likened to angelic choirs,

Singing like martyrs burning on pyres.

Heavenly and pure, holy and true,

Thank gods above they are but few.

In death and despair do they belong,

Never in life, for them death-bells do gong.

 

Tribal rhythms mark the Harbinger song, 

Dark and macabre, for Night play strong.

Melancholy and fierce, in darkness they lurk,

Screeching dissonance with a barbaric smirk.

In the shadowy Wyrd do they belong,

Rarely into danger do they stride headlong.

 

Wrack and Roll and Death and Pain,

The Cacophony peals a mighty refrain.

Terror and destruction in every plucked string,

Enemies flee from the death they bring.

In dominance and glory do they belong,

Majestic dissonance their battle song.