Come dream of Camelot with me,
long passed days, but you will see
a tale of mystery, magic told
of myth and legend that never grows old.
It was a time of Knights on steeds,
Giants, magic, and daring deeds.
When Britons strove to save their land
from foreign foes and make a stand.
This said that only Arthur could
pull forth the sword from where it stood,
pluck it from the block of stone:
the sword that put him on the throne.
King of the Britons he became
even now, we revere his name.
He chose for Britain the Knights of fable,
one hundred and fifty at the Round Table.
Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain,
we know them all by name and fame.
Imagine them with swords raised high,
charge into fight with battle cry.
It is not thunder that you hear,
but galloping horses that draw near.
The gleam of armour, clash of steel,
the heat of battle now too real.
Arrows fly from bows drawn tight
as all are joined into the fight.
They battle for honour, shield in hand
for their King and for their sacred land.
They are the heroes of whom we dream,
now long gone, no longer seen.
But never let them be forgotten
nor the magical time of Camelot
