The Water is Wide - Traditional

The water is wide, I cannot cross o'er;
Neither have I the wings to fly;
Give me a boat that can carry two;
And we both shall row, my love and I;

There is a ship that sails the sea;
She's loaded deep, as deep can be;
But not so deep as the love I'm in;
I know not if I sink or swim;

The water is wide, I cannot cross o'er;
Neither have I the wings to fly;
Give me a boat that can carry two;
And both shall row, my love and I;

I leaned my back against an oar;
Thinking it was a mighty tree;
But first it bent, and then it broke;
And such did my first love treat me;

The water is wide, I cannot cross o'er;
Neither have I the wings to fly;
Give me a boat that can carry two;
And both shall row, my love and I;

Stierbach Runesong - Words by Bertran de St Jean

Matchless stands Atlantia’s glory,
her might and beauty without peer;
Stretching west to Midrealm-mountains,
reaching east where sea-sward nears;
Her bounty feeds and clothes many,
gentle Eden of latter-days;
Mark not largess for infirmness,
for strong arms keep the thief at bay;

Atlantian grain-lands be guarded,
a bull stained crimson stands in might;
All foes fear his anger deadly,
winging cowardly from his sight;
Stierbach stands athwart two rivers,
the lifeblood of a kingdom’s trade;
At each ready stands a door-ward,
‘gainst outland foe or bandit raid;

Dark Potomac, strongly running
from Aethelmarc unto the sea;
Watchful eye to western gate-land,
Abhainn Iarthair sword-arm doughty;
Rappahannock swiftly racing,
with slavering jaws of jagged stone;
Ready guard to southern gate-land,
with bow drawn taught stands Sudentorre;

With war-bow, axe, and broad-sword bright,
Atlantia’s heart we do defend;
Hearth-guards’ and door-wards’ ready might,
to slay the foe, protect the friend;
Raider, reaver, foe-man bitter,
whate’er your fortunes ‘neath the sun;
Come not here with hope of plunder,
for this land is where red bulls run!

Once Upon A Time - Words and Music by Joe Bethancourt

Raised on song and story, heroes could be found;

In the joyous tales of glory, chivalry's renown;

The revel halls and list fields, The minstrels haunting rhyme;

And I was loved by someone, once upon a time;

Ring a ring a rosy,as the light declines;

I still remember someone, once upon a time;

Once upon a time there was, a kingdom far away;

That sang a song of chivalry, in a happy yesterday;

Miles of rolling country, from the mountains to the sea;

A kingdom carved from nothing; a dream that came to be;

Our children play together, beneath the skies of blue;

And we loved and fought each other; like families often do;

With honor as our watchword, to find the Holy Grail;

Caught up into a different time, in a living fairy tale;

Ring a ring a rosy,as the light declines;

I still remember someone, once upon a time;

Oh the years have made me bitter, though time has dimmed the pain;

And everything keeps changing, nothing stays the same;

I watch my children live the dream, from seeds that we have sown;

And my old friends have all gone away, and I sit all alone;

The Outlands and Meridies, Ansteorra's windy plains;

The East and Middle, Atenveldt, the misty Western reign;

My minds still full of memories, I turn to hear their chime;

I still remember someone, once upon a time;

Ring a ring a rosy, as the light declines;

These are the days of glory, these are the good old times;

Our Fathers of Old - Words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement by Leslie Fish

Excellent herbs had our fathers of old,
Excellent herbs for easing their pain,
Alexanders and Marigolds,
Eyebright and Orris and Elecampagne,
Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,
Almost singing themselves they run,
Vervain, Dittany, and Call-me-to-you,
Cowslip and Melilot, Rose-of-the Sun,
Anything green that grew out of the mould,
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.

Excellent books had our fathers of old,
Excellent books of the herbs and the stars,
The Sun was lord of the Marigold,
Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars,
Pat as a sum in division it goes,
Every Herb had a Planet bespoke,
Who but Venus could govern the Rose?
Who but Jupiter own the Oak?
Simply and plainly the facts are retold,
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said,
Wonderfull little our forefathers knew,
Half their remedies cured you quite dead,
Most of their teaching was simply untrue,
'Look to the stars when a patient is ill,
Dirt has nothing to do with disease,
Bleed and blister as much as you will,
Blister and purge him as oft as you please.'
Wherefore enormous and most manifold,
Errors were made by our fathers of old.

Yet when the plague was sore in the land,
And neither Plant nor Planet assuaged,
They took their lives in their lanced hands,
And oh what a wonderful war they waged,
Aye when the crosses were chalked on the door,
Aye when the terrible dead-carts rolled,
Excellent courage our forefathers bore,
Excellent heart had our fathers of old.

If it be certain, as Galen says,
And sage Hippocrates holds as much,
That those afflicted by doubt and dismay,
Are mightily helped by a dead-man's touch,
Then be good to us Stars above,
Then be good to us Herbs below,
We are afflicted by what we can prove,
We are distracted by all that we know,
So down from Heaven or up from your mould,
Send us the hearts of our fathers of old.

Norman and Saxon - Words by Rudyard Kipling, Arrangement by Brian Bertrand

"My son," said the Norman Baron,
"I am dying and you will be heir,
To all the broad acres in England,
That William gave me for share,
When he conquered the Saxon at Hastings,
And a nice little handful it is,
But before you go over to rule it,
I want you to understand this.

The Saxon is not like us Normans,
His manners are not so polite,
But he never means anything serious,
'Til he talks about justice and rights,
When he stands like an ox in the furrow,
With his sullen-set eyes on your own,
And he grumbles 'This isn't fair-dealing.',
My son leave the Saxon alone.

You can horsewhip your Gascony archers,
Or torture your Picardy spears,
But don't try that game on the Saxon,
You'll have the whole brood 'round your ears,
From the richest old Thane in the country,
To the poorest chained serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets,
And if you are wise you will yield.

But first you must master their language,
Their dialect, proverbs, and songs,
Don't trust any clerk to interpret,
When they come with the tale of their wrongs,
Let them know you know what they're saying,
Let them feel you know what to say,
Yes even when you want to go hunting,
Hear em out if it takes you all day.

They'll drink every hour of daylight,
And poach every hour of dark,
Its the sport, not the rabbits that they're after,
We've plenty of game in the park,
Don't hang them or cut of their fingers,
That's wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten South-country poacher,
Makes the best man-at-arms you can find.

Appear with your wife and the children,
At their weddings, funerals, and feasts,
Be polite but not friendly with Bishops,
Be good to all poor parish priests,
Say 'we' 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking,
Instead of 'you fellows' and 'I',
Don't ride over seeds, keep your temper,
And never you tell 'em a lie!"

The Centurion's Song - Words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement by Leslie Fish

Legate, I had the news last night,
my cohort ordered home,
By ships to Portus Itius,
and thence by road to Rome,
I've marched the companies aboard,
the arms are stowed below,
Now let another take my sword,
Command me not to go!

I've served in Britain forty years, 3
from Vectis to the Wall,
I have no other home than this,
nor any life at all,
Last night I did not understand,
but now the hour draws near,
That calls me to my native land,
I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made,
here where my work was done,
Here where my dearest dead are laid,
my wife and only son,
Here where time, custom, grief, and toil,
age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil,
how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs,
those folk and fields suffice,
What purple southern pomp can match
our changeful northern skies,
Black with December's snows unshed
or pearled with August haze,
The clanging arch of steel-grey March,
or June's long-lighted days.

You'll take the old Aurelian road
through shore-decending pines,
Where blue as any peacock's neck,
the Tyrrhene Ocean shines,
You go where laurel crowns are won but,
will you e'er forget,
The scent of hawthorne in the sun,
or bracken in the wet.

Let me work here for Britain's sake,
at any task you will,
A marsh to drain, a road to make,
or native troops to drill,
Some western camp, I know the Pict,
or granite border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict,
where our old messmates sleep.

Legate I come to you in tears,
my cohort ordered home,
I've served in Britain forty years, .
what should I do in Rome,
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind,
the only life I know,
I cannot leave it all behind,
command me not to go!

Worms of the Earth - by Clam Chowder

My father worked on the land, as did his father before him,
Plowing and sowing by hand, and harvesting what the land bore him,
He was killed by the robbers before I was ten,
One stroke of the sword and then they were gone,
While our lord strutted bravely on top his tall walls,
And did nothing to hinder the slaughter.

For we are the worms of the earth,
Against the lions of might,
All of our days we are tied to the land,
While they hunt and they feast and they fight,
We give our crops, our homes, and our lives,
And the clerics tell us this is right,
And they've beat us before and they'll beat us again,
But we'll drink from their helmets tonight!

Our lord rode away to the wars,
Mounted on top a tall stallion,
To fight for some noble cause,
With his knights there and henchmen to guard him,
Then we heard that they captured both he and his men,
And for that they raised our taxes again,
For to pay the great ransom in gold and in gems,
To get our lord back to rule us.

For we are the worms of the earth,
Against the lions of might,
All of our days we are tied to the land,
While they hunt and they feast and they fight,
We give our crops, our homes, and our lives,
And the clerics tell us this is right,
And they've beat us before and they'll beat us again,
But we'll drink from their helmets tonight!

This year there was a great drought,
Our crops were burnt in the ground,
Not that our lord did without,
For his men took all that they found,
Then our lord came among us with some of his men,
To announce that the taxes were raised yet again,
So a few of us acted on our desperate plan,
Now his body is meat for the crows.

Into the fire we stare,
Behind our poor barricade,
To tired to feel the despair,
Knowing no one will come to our aid,
For when that sun rises the knights all around,
They will gather in force and hunt us all down,
They'll mount our heads proudly on pikes in the town,
And our final tax will be paid.

For we are the worms of the earth,
Against the lions of might,
All of our days we are tied to the land,
While they hunt and they feast and they fight,
We give our crops, our homes, and our lives,
And the clerics tell us this is right,
And they've beat us before and they'll kill us tomorrow,
But we'll drink from their helmets tonight!

The Fairies and the Two Hunchbacks - A Tale of Picardy

Once there were three fairies who used to amuse themselves by dancing round and round, and singing, "Sunday, Monday; Sunday, Monday."

One day a little hunchback surprised them at this sport, and without being afraid, he took them by the hand and began to dance with them, repeating also, "Sunday, Monday; Sunday, Monday."
He danced so prettily that the fairies were charmed, and to reward him took away his hunch. Perfectly happy, he returned home, constantly singing as he went, "Sunday, Monday; Sunday, Monday."

On the road he met another little hunchback whom he knew. The latter was greatly astonished to see his friend relieved of his hunch, and said, "How did you manage it? Your hunch is gone."
"It is all very easy," replied the other. "You have only to go to a certain wood, when you will find some fairies. You must dance with them and sing, 'Sunday, Monday; Sunday, Monday,' and they will take away your hunch."

"I will go, I will go at once," cried the little hunchback, and started immediately for the wood to which he had been directed, where, sure enough, he found the three fairies. Without hesitating, he took them by the hand and danced with them, repeating, "Sunday, Monday." But unhappily for him, he added, "Tuesday, Wednesday."

The fairies, indignant, added to his hunch that of the first hunchback, so that he was a fright to behold, so frightful that if you had seen him you would have run away from him.

And then ? -- And then the cock crew, and it was day.

The Woman Who Had No Shadow - A Traditional Scandanavian Tale

Once there was a pastor's wife who was afraid to have children. Other women are concerned when they have no children, but she was constantly afraid that she could have children.
One day she went to a wise woman, a wicked witch, and asked her what to do to avoid having children. The wise woman gave her seven stones and told her if she would throw them into the well she would be spared from having children.

The pastor's wife threw the stones into the well. As each stone splashed below, she thought that she heard the cry of a child, but still she felt a great sense of relief.

Some time later the pastor and his were walking across the churchyard by the light of a full moon, when the pastor suddenly noticed that his wife did not have a shadow. This frightened him, and he asked her for an explanation, stating that she must have committed a dreadful sin, a sin that she would have to confess to him.

He continued to press her for a confession, until finally she admitted what she had done. Upon hearing her story, he angrily proclaimed, "Cursed woman! Flowers will grow from our slate roof before God forgives you of this sinful deed!" With that he sent her away, telling her to never again step across his threshold.

One night, many years later, a wretched and tattered beggar woman approached the parsonage and asked for shelter. The housekeeper gave the poor woman a bit to eat and made a bed for her next to the kitchen stove.

The next morning the pastor found the beggar woman dead on the kitchen floor. In spite of her rags, he recognized her immediately as the woman he had cursed and disowned. As he stood there contemplating her lifeless, but serene face, his housekeeper burst into the room. "Pastor!" she exclaimed. "Come outside! A miracle has happened during the night!" The pastor followed her outside and saw that his slate roof was covered with blossoming flowers.

The Fox and the Horse - A Traditional German Tale

A peasant had a faithful horse which had grown old and could do no more work, so his master no longer wanted to give him anything to eat and said, "I can certainly make no more use of you, but still I mean well by you, and if you prove yourself still strong enough to bring me a lion here, I will maintain you. But for now get out of my stable." And with that he chased him into the open field.

The horse was sad, and went to the forest to seek a little protection there from the weather. There the fox met him and said, "Why do you hang your head so, and go about all alone?"
"Alas," replied the horse, "greed and loyalty do not dwell together in one house. My master has forgotten what services I have performed for him for so many years, and because I can no longer plow well, he will give me no more food, and has driven me out."

"Without giving you a chance?" asked the fox.

"The chance was a bad one. He said, if I were still strong enough to bring him a lion, he would keep me, but he well knows that I cannot do that."

The fox said, "I will help you. Just lie down, stretch out as if you were dead, and do not stir."
The horse did what the fox asked, and then the fox went to the lion, who had his den not far off, and said, "A dead horse is lying out there. Just come with me, and you can have a rich meal."
The lion went with him, and when they were both standing by the horse the fox said, "After all, it is not very comfortable for you here -- I tell you what -- I will fasten it to you by the tail, and then you can drag it into your cave and eat it in peace."

This advice pleased the lion. He positioned himself, and in order that the fox might tie the horse fast to him, he kept completely quiet. But the fox tied the lion's legs together with the horse's tail, and twisted and fastened everything so well and so strongly that no amount of strength could pull it loose. When he had finished his work, he tapped the horse on the shoulder and said, "Pull, white horse, pull!"

Then up sprang the horse at once, and pulled the lion away with him. The lion began to roar so that all the birds in the forest flew up in terror, but the horse let him roar, and drew him and dragged him across the field to his master's door. When the master saw the lion, he was of a better mind, and said to the horse, "You shall stay with me and fare well." And he gave him plenty to eat until he died.

The Burden of the Crown - words and music by Derek Foster

The battlefield is silent, the shadows growing long
Though I may view the sunset, I'll not live to see the dawn
The trees have ceased to rustle, the birds no longer sing
All nature seems to wonder at the passing of a King.

And now you stand before me, your father's flesh and blood
Begotten of my sinews on the woman that I loved
So difficult the birthing, the mother died that day
And now you stand before me to bear my crown away.

The hour is fast approaching when you come into your own
When you take the ring and sceptre, and sit upon the throne
Before that final hour when we each must meet our fate
Pray gaze upon the royal crown and marvel at its weight.

This cap of burnished metal is the symbol of a land
Supporting all we cherish, the dreams for which we stand
The weight, you'll find, is nothing if you hold it in your palm
The burden of the crown begins the day you put it on.

See how the jewels sparkle as you gaze at it again
Each facet is a subject whose rights you must defend
Every point of light a burden you must shoulder with your own
And mighty is the burden of the man upon the throne.

The day is nearly ended, my limbs are growing cold
I can feel the angels waiting to receive my passing soul
Keep well for me my kingdom when my memory is dead
And forgive me for the burden I place upon your head.

The Dream - words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement by Leslie Fish

Oh late withdrawn from humankind,
And following dreams we never knew,
Old man, what dream has Fate assigned,
To trouble you.

Such virtue as commands the law,
A virtue, to the vulgar hordes,
Suffices not you needs must draw,
A righteous sword.

And flagrant in so doing smite,
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshiper invite,
The god again.

Thence comes public strife and naked crime,
And deadlier than the cup you shun,
A people schooled to mock in time,
All laws not one.

Cease then to fashion state made sin,
Nor give your children cause to doubt,
That virtue springs from iron within,
Not lead without.

The Innkeeper's Song - by Jim Pipkin

I have been a traveller, I've seen the far country,
Marched across the meadows, sailed upon the seas,
Faced the heedless slaughter in the madness of the line,
Saw the death of innocence, surprised when it was mine,

I have heard the seagulls where the ocean washes sand,
Known the heat of battle, felt the hot blood on my hand,
Heard the cries of wounded men just praying to be dead,
Followed many leaders, and was followed where I led,

When I found a lady love, it was mostly quick and cold,
We bartered for their services with cloth and food and gold,
When the army marched away some few might tag along,
And walk behind the baggage train, singing bawdy songs,

Now I'm old but hale enough, with many tales to tell,
My shares bought me this roadside inn which suits my temper well,
But when the weather's cold my wounds will ache again I fear,
I dull the pain with sleeping herbs, and mugs of barley-beer,

You say you're for the cavalry, the dashing cavaliers,
But horsemen too must fight on foot when fodder comes too dear,
So if by chance you find yourself dismounted in the line,
Stand always between two friends, with one eye out behind,

Take with you my hanger boy, t'was always at my side,
Some say she's a lucky blade, she's often saved my hide,
And if your Ma had lived I'm sure she'd cry to see you go,
As it is Godspeed my son, I've taught you all I know.

Danegeld - Words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement by Leslie Fish

It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation,
To come upon their neighbors and to say,
"We invaded you last night,
We are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for danegeld,
And the people who ask it explain,
That if you just pay them the danegeld,
Then you'd be rid of the Danes.

It is always a temptation to a rich and lazy nation,
To puff and look important and to say,
"Though we know we should defeat you,
We have not the time to meet you,
We will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the danegeld,
But we've proved it again and again,
That if you once pay 'em the danegeld,
You'll never be rid of the Danes.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
Lest they should succumb and go astray,
So when you are requested,
To pay up or be molested,
You'll find it better policy to say.

"We never pay anyone danegeld,
No matter how trifling the cost,
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the people who play it are lost, lost, lost,
The people who play it are lost."

Berth Gellert, a Welsh tale

Prince Llewellyn had a favorite greyhound named Gellert that had been given to him by his father-in-law, King John. He was as gentle as a lamb at home but a lion in the chase. One day Llewellyn went to the chase and blew his horn in front of his castle. All his other dogs came to the call but Gellert never answered it. So he blew a louder blast on his horn and called Gellert by name, but still the greyhound did not come. At last Prince Llewellyn could wait no longer and went off to the hunt without Gellert. He had little sport that day because Gellert was not there, the swiftest and boldest of his hounds.

He turned back in a rage to his castle, and as he came to the gate, who should he see but Gellert come bounding out to meet him. But when the hound came near him, the prince was startled to see that his lips and fangs were dripping with blood. Llewellyn started back and the greyhound crouched down at his feet as if surprised or afraid at the way his master greeted him.

Now Prince Llewellyn had a little son a year old with whom Gellert used to play, and a terrible thought crossed the prince's mind that made him rush towards the child's nursery. And the nearer he came the more blood and disorder he found about the rooms. He rushed into it and found the child's cradle overturned and daubed with blood.

Prince Llewellyn grew more and more terrified, and sought for his little son everywhere. He could find him nowhere but only signs of some terrible conflict in which much blood had been shed. At last he felt sure the dog had destroyed his child, and shouting to Gellert, "Monster, thou hast devoured my child," he drew out his sword and plunged it in the greyhound's side, who fell with a deep yell and still gazing in his master's eyes.

As Gellert raised his dying yell, a little child's cry answered it from beneath the cradle, and there Llewellyn found his child unharmed and just awakened from sleep. But just beside him lay the body of a great gaunt wolf all torn to pieces and covered with blood. Too late, Llewellyn learned what had happened while he was away. Gellert had stayed behind to guard the child and had fought and slain the wolf that had tried to destroy Llewellyn's heir.

In vain was all Llewellyn's grief; he could not bring his faithful dog to life again. So he buried him outside the castle walls within sight of the great mountain of Snowdon, where every passerby might see his grave, and raised over it a great cairn of stones. And to this day the place is called Beth Gellert, or the Grave of Gellert.

Song of the Men's Side - words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement byLeslie Fish

Dreadful was the beast, when it hunted us we ran,
Ran very fast though we knew,
That it was not right that the beast should master man,
But what could we flint-workers do?

The beast would only grin at our spears 'round its ears,
Grin at the hammers that we made,
But now we will hunt him for the life with the knife,
And this is the buyer of the blade.

Oh, there's room for his shadow on the grass, let it pass,
Two left and right stand clear,
This is the buyer of the blade, be afraid,
This is the great god Tyr.

Tyr thought hard 'til he hammered out a plan,
For he knew that it was not right,
And it is not right that the beast should master man,
So he went to the children of the night,
To beg a magic knife of their make, for our sake,
When he begged for the knife they said,
The price of the knife you would buy is an eye,
And that was the price he paid.

Tell it to the barrows of the dead, blood ahead,
Shout it so the one inside can hear,
This is the buyer of the blade, be afraid,
This is the great god Tyr.

Our children and womenfolk may walk on the chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond,
We need not fear for our sheep as we keep,
Tally at the shearing pond,
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For the shepherd of the twilight is dismayed at the blade,
Feet in the night have run,

Oh, there's room for his shadow on the grass, let it pass,
Two left and right stand clear,
This is the buyer of the blade, be afraid,
This is the great god Tyr.

Three Bears Norse by Jo Walton

An old home, a bear home, remote from human haunts,
Wallgirt and weatherwarded, where ones wise in woodcraft,
Lick into new life, a baby, a bear cub,
Safe among saplings, far in the forest.

Till one comes slyly, girlchild, goldilocks,
Softhanded, seeker of secrets, pamperling, pretty one,
"No!" never heard she, dancing like dandelion,
Stealing twixt treeboughs, spies out the bearhouse.

Fast closed stands the door, bears are gone from home,
In rushes Dandelion, doorbreaker,
greedy one, no thought spared for holy guestlaw,
Spoiled child, undenied, heart set on plunder.

First seizes three chairs, orderly, big to small,
Claims each and tries each, breaking the smallest.
Next finds the oatslop, orderly, big to small,
Claims each and tries each, eating the smallest.

Onwards goes Dandelion, breaker of guestlaw,
Turning from oatslop, yawning, bedwards,
Slinks up the stairs, three beds, big to small,
Orderly, tries each, sleeps on the smallest.

Bears, heading homewards, sleepy as sun seeks sea,
Father foremost, bearcub beside him, bear mother guarding rear,
Stop, scenting surprise, coming on cautiously
Find their door opened, blown on wild winds.

"Who?" asks bearfather, "Dared to sit in my chair?"
"Who?" growls bearmother, "Dared to sit in my chair?"
"Who," howls bear cub "Dared to sit in my chair,
Breaking it to scattered shards? I vow revenge."

"Who?" asks bearfather, "Dared to taste my oatslop?"
"Who?" growls bearmother, "Dared to taste my oatslop?"
"Who," howls bear cub "Dared to eat my oatslop,
Eating it all up? I vow revenge!"

Upstairs, at long last, learn of the lawbreaker,
Sleeping serenely, stuffed with their oatslop,
Wakes for an instant, seeing them, simpers, screams,
Bear teeth, bear claws, shred her, sunder her,
so perish lawbreakers.

Fruit of the Yew - Words and arrangement by Jim Pipkin

Grim warriors appeared decked in iron and gold,
Their bright banners snapped in the breeze,
Harvest was over, the weather was cold,
Turning hot breath to cloud in the freeze.

They moved over rivers, meadows, and fields,
The peasantry scattered before,
Gathered the wealth of the land on their shields,
And carried it off to the shore,

"How could this happen and where is our King?
Where are the warriors we pay?"
"Aye, the King may be King where he sits on his throne,
But that throne is four days' ride away."

Swift word was sent to the men of the wood,
There'd be no trade for winter this year,
No sacks of grain for the skin of the fox,
No ale for the flesh of the deer,

But deep in the woodlands of Wales grows a tree,
The name of that tree is the Yew,
And the fruit of the Yew is a stout longbow stave,
Throwing straight cloth-yard shafts strong and true,

They gathered in number from forest and fen,
Walking soft as the hunting-men do,
Hung at each belt were the straight cloth-yard shafts,
In each hand was the fruit of the Yew,

Moving by night through the still-burning steads,
They searched for the camp by the shore,
Each made an oath as they passed by the dead,
That the morning would even the score,

Morning broke clear and the raiders awoke,
With a leisurely thought for the day,
'Til one showed himself and a soft bowstring spoke,
From three hundred paces away,

And as he fell dead a loud taunting voice cried,
"'Tis a pleasure to pay you your due!
Ye come seeking all of the fruits of our land,
Have a taste of the fruit of the Yew!"

The King arrived early mudspattered and tired,
Just to look on a field of the dead,
Cut down from the front when they stood in their line,
Cut down from the rear as they fled,

For what good are shields that don't cover the legs,
Or helms that don't cover the eyes,
Or shirts of bright mail 'gainst a straight cloth-yard shaft,
That can pierce through a stag on the fly,

"Where are the men that have done me this good?"
Asked the King from his horse ridden lame,
"T'was outlaws and brigands from back in the wood,
They've since fled back whence they all came."

"Will they take pardon and live in my peace?"
Asked the King of his counselor true,
Said the counselor, "Nay, they're a quarrelsome lot,
They'll not become lawful for you."

Raiders take heed to the gist of my tale,
It may lengthen your lives if you will,
When you go a'reavin' be sure of your mark,
Have a care that it matches your skill,

For England pays silver, and Spain will give gold,
France will grant lands it is true,
But seek not for wealth in the woodlands of Wales,
For we pay in the fruit of the Yew.

Cold Iron - words by Rudyard Kipling, arrangement by Leslie Fish

Gold is for the mistress, Silver for the maid,
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade,
"Good!" cried the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron, Cold Iron, is master of them all."

So he made rebellion, against the King his liege,
Camped outside his citadel and summoned it to siege,
"Nay!" cried the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"For Iron, Cold Iron, shall be master of you all."

Woe to the Baron, and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannonballs laid them all along,
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron, Cold Iron was master over all.

But his King spake kindly, ah, how kind a lord,
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" cried the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron, Cold Iron, is master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown,
Halters for a silly neck that cannot keep a crown,
As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron, Cold Iron, must be master over all."

Yet his King made answer, few such kings there be,
"Here is bread and here is wine now sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's name while I do recall,
How Iron, Cold Iron can be master of men all."

He poured the wine and blessed it, he blessed and broke the bread,
With his own hands he served them and presently he said,
"See these hands they pierced with nails outside my city wall,
Show Iron, Cold Iron to be master of men all.

Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong,
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong,
I forgive thy treason, I redeem thy fall,
And Iron, Cold Iron is still master over all.

Crowns are for the valiant, sceptres for the bold,
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold."
"Nay" cried the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"For Iron, Cold Iron is still master of men all."