[Intro — Prologue] Bard: Hark, ye bold and weary folk, draw near and bend the ear; Lute strings whisper, pipe at dusk, a wassail for the bier. I sing of trench and ruined keep, of ash upon the throat, Of men with brass-stamped numbers, of the letter, and the note. [Verse 1] Beneath a ruined watchman's tower where the village bell hangs low, The wind puts out the candles and dust silvered by the snow. Grey Dike they call the trench-line, a scar upon the lea, Where columns come on steady feet, where none will bow the knee. Brass-stamped on a leather strap, Seventeen-Four on Roan, He tucks a folded candlelit note, then whistles for the dawn. [Chorus — Hook] Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall (Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall) Brass and oath, we answer all Ash and bell, our names recall We keep the night, we keep the fall [Call & Response] Bard: Who keeps the keep when the red dusk creeps? Crowd: Grey Dike keeps the keep! Bard: Who counts the wound while the cold moon weeps? Crowd: Grey Dike counts the sleep! [Verse 2] Alehouse hush and hearth-stone smoke, I heard an old tom tell Of Roan the Sergeant, iron-jawed, who held the eastern dell. A ruined keep at Blackfen Moor where hedgerows burned to black, He sent a son a folded note — the candle marked the track. Ash on throat, copper dust, the taste of iron thin, He carved his number on a post and signed the letter: "Kin." [Pre-Chorus ] Lute and pipe, let tremble strings; let bell and chorus ring, A stanza for the nameless men who serve and do not sing. [Chorus — Hook] Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall (Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall) Brass and oath, we answer all Ash and bell, our names recall We keep the night, we keep the fall [Bridge — Bardic Flourish] Hark! The piper plays a widow's step, the lute a low lament, Hear sergeant Roan call numbers off like beads on iron bent. Grey Dike—a line of salted earth, a ridge of bone and loam, They trade their breath for boroughs safe so other folk may roam. (All:) Lute and wassail, pipe the verse, let candle-flame be brave, We sing for those who do the keeping, who stand upon the grave. [Verse 3 — Vignette] At dawn the ruined chapel door was ringing with a bell, A widow's son pulled from the mud and carried where they fell. A folded note, the wax half-broke, a child's name spelled in haste, "Forgive me," read the candlelight, "I kept the line, I kept our place." [Pre-Chorus — Rising] So raise a glass in low refrain, but spare the jests and cheers, For songs will wear like threadbare cloaks; these ranks are carved with years. [Chorus — Climax] Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall (Stand, Grey Dike, hold the wall) Brass and oath, we answer all Ash and bell, our names recall We keep the night, we keep the fall [Outro — Lament & Benediction] Bard: When ale runs low and embers dim, when minstrel's fingers tire, Remember Roan and Grey Dike's men beneath the smoky spire. A tolling bell, a folded note, a candle guttered thin— Their oath remains in colder winds, in l