We dart on horses with two wheels
Supplanting beings with cold steel
We chase a dragon underground:
The son of fellows with black gowns

We solve the riddles that he asks
Or else he turns us back to ash
He hunts no gold and seeks no crown
He tracks the patterns like a hound

And when the crested letter comes
the crown will guide us to the throne
If you can read the elvish runes
Your ears shall hear the Imperial tunes:

“O knighted scientists of the queen
Go out and build the next machine”