My liege! The swallow may fly south with the sun or the house martin or the plover may seek warmer climes in winter, yet these are not strangers to our land? That's-- that's, uh-- that's enough music for now, lads. Oh, yeah. Oh. Am I right? Will you ask your master if he wants to join my court at Camelot?! The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water signifying by Divine Providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. Camelot! Bring out your dead! Nine pence.