When all the separate lands unite
and man at last with man will dwell
Conquest will disappear from sight
become a story to retell
When swords are beaten into ploughs
and spears reforged as reaping hooks
When armour's hung on oaken boughs
War will retire to history books.
When working folk at day's end, will
all gather round a groaning board
and take their time to eat their fill
then Famine falls before this hoard
But
One rider still will hold the field
The last of four who once rode out
A ghastly scythe is his to wield
and in his eye you'll see no doubt
For every man that once drew breath
must meet him face to face one day
and more certain than taxes, Death
will with one stroke all debts defray