Through the iron gates a carriage rolls
To the house, a mansion old
We are the blades of Battenburg
Downstairs our whispers are faintly heard
We are the blades of Battenburg
Twilight glints and trees have torn fingers
Spreading across the lavvn
The halls are white, their shroud is cold
The vaults are sealed, their sales untold
'Neath a portrait of a brave young man
An old woman still in her bridal gown
