The fields lie unploughed and the horses run free;
  The homesteads lie empty from mountains to sea;
  For we've signed our last contract and asked our last fee,
  And all of the Dorsai are leaving.

     March, march, down to the landing,
     And turn your face outwards and be on your way.
     Fare ye well, my hearth and my homeland,
     For all of the Dorsai are leaving.

  Our homesteads are founded on blood and on bone;
  A life paid the price of each rooftree and stone;
  But we buy Man's freedom with all that we own
  So all of the Morgans are leaving.

     March, march, down to the landing.
     And turn your face outwards and be on your way.
     Fare ye well, ye stones of Fal Morgan,
     For all of your children are leaving.

  Our brothers died far from the land of their birth,
  And few now lie here in her sheltering earth,
  But we buy Man's freedom with all they are worth
  And all of the Graemes are leaving.

     March, march, down to the landing,
     And turn your face outwards and be on your way.
     Fare ye well to Graeme-House and Foralie.
     All of your brothers are leaving.

  Our music brings courage when battle is nigh,
  For it is not the killing that makes a Dorsai;
  A true man need only be willing to die
  Or to go with his friends when they're leaving.

     March, march, down to the landing,
     And turn your face outwards and be on your way.
     Fare ye well, La Casa De Sandoval.
     All of your pipers are leaving.

  Our fields lie unploughed and our horses run free.
  Our homesteads lie empty from mountains to sea.
  For we've signed our last contract and asked our last fee
  And all of the Dorsai are leaving.

     March, march, down to the landing,
     And turn your face outwards and be on your way.
     Fare ye well, my hearth and my homeland,
     For all of the Dorsai are leaving.