Conyers Falchion from Peste by Belly of Paris

Some old rude song lies under stone
Such as the Sockburn Wyrm calls home
With teeth made black by poison breath
That sent our young men to their death

The wyrm lay Sockburn town to waste
It took our children young and strong
It burned our houses to the dirt
And left no livestock, crop or field

And every trembling hand agreed
The Sockburn Wyvern must be slain

But who around to do the deed?
Who has the valour? Who will bleed?
For Sockburn which, although half-dead
Must have a savior in its ranks
Until John Conyers of the town
Went to the church and knelt there down
And pledged the Holy Ghost his son
He’d see that darksome shade undone

With gleaming falchion in his grip
And tarnished armour on his back
He set out for its savage den
And there to take the wyvern’s head

For every talon, every tooth
There is a blade that cuts the root

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