Says the Warden Tabris in words that shems can understand:
'I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no knife ears here."
The shems be'ind the bar they laughed an' roared a fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' "Knife Ear, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Good Ser Tabris,'' when the fiends begins to slay,
The fiends begins to slay, my boys, the fiends begins to slay,
O it's "Thank you, Good Ser Tabris,'' when the fiends begins to slay.
I went into a tourney as sober as could be,
They gave a drunken shem room, but 'adn't there none for me;
They sent me to the armoury or round the stable-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lords! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' "Knife Ear, wait outside";
But it's "Special steed for Tabris" when the darkspawn's on the tide,
The darkspawn's on the tide, my boys, the darkspawn's on the tide,
O it's "Special steed for Tabris" when the darkspawn's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' labourers that builds the 'ouse you sleep
Is cheaper than them servants, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' starving labourers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than giving them full kit.
Then it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' "Knife Ear how's yer sty?"
But it's "Mystic line of 'eroes" when the shrieks begin to cry,
The shrieks begin to cry, my boys, the shrieks begin to cry,
O it's "Mystic line of 'eroes" when the shrieks begin to cry.
We aren't no in-born servants, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But simple men and wim in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, simple men and wim in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' "Knife Ear, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, Ser," when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, Ser," when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' 'omes, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the court-room chats, but prove it to our face
The Mourner's Veil is not the fallen elf's disgrace.
For it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the archers start to shoot;
An' it's Knife Ear this, an' Knife Ear that, an' anything you please;
But Knife Ear ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet this Knife Ear sees!'