| The world was made with mighty hands,
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| A blessing rests upon our lands,
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| The home we have wrought, a sacred keep,
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| The glorious halls of Hammerdeep
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| The craftsman shapes eternal art,
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| The world seeks out the merchant’s cart,
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| At banquet hall where blood is strong.
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| The Dwarven mines ring out in song,
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| Where jewels drive the dark away,
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| And night becomes as bright as day,
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| A honest end from an honest start,
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| For wealth is found inside the heart.
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| Where truth is crowned as king of all,
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| and guile is a bitter gall,
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| here sweat must flow before the ale,
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| And apron donned before the mail.
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| But when a Dwarf is sent to war,
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| He pines for home, his heart is sore,
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| Though never was such bravery,
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| Nor strength of hand or weaponry,
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| A Dwarven fire is raging heat,
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| His foe is fallen at his feet,
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| with painful cries, the spirit stalls
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| Of evil, when the hammer falls.
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| The world bemoans the lifeless hands,
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| The Dwarves who died to keep their lands,
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| The valiant souls of Hammerdeep
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| Shall echo in eternal sleep.
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| The water flows, the fire glows
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| With hammer blows the kingdom grows
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| We work to set the earth aright
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| To build our realm of Dwarven might |