The seven swords of Britain were quenched in whiskey.

Drinking With Gonvannon
© Allison Lonsdale 1998
Live at Lestat's, Disc One, Track 12

I've been drinking with Gonvannon, of all drunkards, count him first
For a god of steel and fire learns the cruelest edge of thirst
His heart burns bright as the heart of the forge
And his throat's as dry as dust
But he only drinks the whiskey for the water makes him rust

He is forged in fine Damascus, he is banded dark and bright
With the silver sheen of honor and the violent stain of night
His laughter shakes the mountains
And his eyes are clear as trust
His hands are broad as anvils and his beard is streaked with rust

          He is old as deep corrosion and new as coins that shine
          If he's cut, his blood runs whiskey where a younger god bleeds wine
          He is scarred as old men's memories, strong as young men's lust
          And at night he hammers dead men's dreams to rust

I have raised a glass with Wayland and I've said my last goodbye
Though he knows the drink will kill him still he cannot long go dry
So he'll drink to the swords and the sorrows
That he carries because he must
He will die the way his fathers died: he'll burn out before he'll rust

Of all the gods of fire and steel he's the one that I loved best
For he lived to hammer out the blade, not to bury it in the breast
Let his grave be in some lovely place
Far from the cruel and the just
He's been pickled well in whiskey…he won't rust
He's been pickled well in whiskey…he won't rust