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Hymir's Kettle's ode for Walpurigsnacht! Commissioned by the renowned and lovely Heather O'Brien of Weiss Alb, I couldn't resist now could I? It has been a long time since I put my hand to a new Hymir's Kettle tune, I hope you all enjoy and have a particularly dark, wicked, and mystical evening in the celebration of these old memories!
The song is a weaving of various legends surrounding Walpurgis (also known as Hexennacht) and heathen elements, but the plotline is the Wild Hunt that pursues the legendary and goddess-like figure of Walpurga - (and in turn here reflecting the battle of the seasons between Winter and Spring). Lyrics below! (This is, in essence, a lyrical drama that has two voices presented: the clean vocals represent Walpurga, and the metal vocals represent the phantom horde that hunts her -- ghosts, witches, the undead, and all that good stuff...)
The trees are reaching out to me —
O! their limbs in shadow!
Embraced in twilight-ecstasy,
Through the vales so hallowed, I lead…
When Sunna expires, as the leaves grow cold,
And Mani ascends to the Spring-chilled skies:
Hearken to the howling of hounds in the wind,
The hunt hath begun, the witches arise.
A fire beyond the wood I see,
Its light draws me on —
A fragile hope, my sanctuary,
Sustains this heart that’s known such winter long…
The light is fading!
No fires of the night will save thee now.
The silver hem frays, the gold shoe wears,
And weariness creases thy snow-white brow.
The creeping frost prevails o’er thee!
— The cherry tree stands in the midnight hour…
Beware! beware, lest thy crown should slip!
— …and the maidens kiss where the leaves rustle thickly.
The Windhound is bound to the Brockenʼs peak!
— A song, and the laughter of dancing feet —
Thy spindle shall break, the crop shall freeze.
— The bonfire’s crackle, and jingling keys.
Yield to the cold that conquereth all!
— A warmth on the wind drives off the month’s chill —
Yield! Yield thyself!!
— The season thou stole, is given unto the gods’ will.
O, farmer! farmer, listen to me —
Let me hide in thy stook of grain:
Over the mists and through the trees,
Many miles I’ve come, to escape this bane!
Thou’lt never truly escape —
Hide, hide where thou might!
The hunt shall return; this day thou hast won,
’Til thy kingdom be shrouded in Wintery night…