Storm Over Steel

The fog is low upon the hill

We stand in line,

our iron still

The cold is biting at the bone

Far from the warmth we called our own (march on)

Raise the banner, lift the shield

We will not break upon this field

Through the iron and the clay We will march

another day

To the beating of the drum

Let the heavy tempest come

(hooo-ahhh) The banners torn,

the field is red

We walk among the quiet dead

With heavy boots and weary hand

To guard the borders of our land

Stand the line

(steady now)

Stand the line