Disclaimer: I don't own Peter, Susan, Edmund or Lucy (sob) although most of the rhymes are mine…
Upon the moors the heather grows and tombs of ancients lie,
Where shining stars cast silver light across the Northern Sky.
'O heavens bright, you ever looked on Peter strong and fell.
You loved him best, what news of him have you this night to tell?'
I watched him ride across my land with armies in his wake.
His sword a standard raised aloft, his mount the earth to shake.
He won the wars; the giants fell, and long he passed away,
Into the valleys of the south, and thence I cannot say.
'O Peter, best of warriors, defender of the land!
Without your strength to rally them, how can your people stand?
The Southern Sun shines warm and bright—it sheds a golden glow
Upon the slopes of Archenland where fruits and flowers grow.
'O heart of light, you knew her well, our gentle northern queen.
Is Susan safe, or does she lie at rest in pastures green?'
I saw her dance in castle halls and sing a Prince to sleep.
With lilies in her hair that grow by sunlit waters deep.
The lords were drawn from far and wide, enamoured of her grace,
But seven moons have reached their full since last they glimpsed her face.
'O Susan, beauty unsurpassed, what of the hearts you break?
And who will comfort Corin's fears if in the night he wake?
The sky 'bove Lantern Waste is red; the air is clear and cold,
And deep within the Western Woods the dreams of trees unfold.
'O forests dark, King Edmund fought when winter was your thane.
Now spring is come will you not tell where tarries magic's bane?
Your learned king my pathways trod alike with lords and thieves,
A treaty with the wolves he forged 'neath gold and amber leaves.
With fellow king and queens he rode in search of quarry fair,
I saw him last 'tween robes of fur with cobwebs in his hair.
'O Edmund, just and merciful, your council far was sought.
Who now will stem the toll of death from bloody battles fought?
From turrets tall the trumpets sound across the Eastern Sea,
And faintly 'neath the water stirs a sweeter harmony.
'O singing waves, what tidings bear the foam upon your crests?
What tidings of your playfellow, Queen Lucy Lioness?
When deep she dove I carried her as close as first romance,
In sport upon my sands she fought and loved it as a dance.
I held her last on morning bright, unheeding of the sun,
That whispered 'though you love her well your time with her is done.'
'O Lucy, joyous battle maid who heard the lion's song,
No land had ever greater joy than that where you belong!'