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.