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."