The spooky band of real-ale drinking bladder-wavers grunt appreciatively at the mighty bard's eulogy. Their leader procures a jug of foaming ale and places it wordlessly next to the singer, with a grip of understanding on the shoulder.
He, too begins to sing, in a clear, low and mournful voice:
The night-owl homeward turns, as the dawn streaks the sky,
We must rise and gather up our flocks, cast tears from our eye
We will tread on secret pathways the ancients did roam,
For now is the last time we'll call this place home...