Hark, now! I am the songsmith, the minstrel of the Church of the Holy Flannel. Tonight, our brave souls have returned to the tents raised upon the fields of battle. I speak to the people: to the villeins, those free peasants, to the grumbling commoners, to the serfs bound to the soil. I have seen our soldiers pass, our humble men-at-arms, our knights, those elite warriors mounted on horseback, our bellatores, fighters of the hockey realm. I have seen our paladins, heroes of chivalry, and a few condottieri as well, serving as mercenaries. The clerics, the oratores, and the nobles have borne away the wounded. The chamberlains, the chancellor, the burgrave of this valiant hockey realm have pledged to us their unwavering support. All our brave souls carry courage for battle within their hearts. Our archers, our crossbowmen, our knights stand ready for the coming clash against the Senators. The arrows have returned to the spiritual paths of their quivers. We shall march. And we shall prevail. And tell the damsel, the chosen one of my heart, she who melts my very soul, that I have always need of her, and that I drink deeply from the stone rim of the deep well of her tender heart. Tell her that without her my heart wanders, lost across the countryside. Go Habs Go. Go now to rest, with the assurance of the devotion of our valiant ones toward the conquest of the meadows of glory.
