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!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
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;
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2009
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!"
"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!
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)