Page 260 POEM I Met a Motley Fool By Robin of Gilwell The other day I met a motley fool I'
Page 260
POEM
I Met a Motley Fool
By: Robin of Gilwell
The other day I met a motley fool;
I've never known another mind so slow.
To live with so few wits seems rather cruel.
I thought perhaps to teach him what I know.
At Tournament his schooling was begun.
I showed him how each fighter there behaved:
Each blow not called, each movement badly done.
He said, "They look so chivalrous and brave!"
We wandered to the ladies in the stands.
I pointed out each flaw that I could see,
Big hips, uneven face, or dirty hands.
He said, "They all look beautiful to me!"
To live with so few wits seems rather cruel,
And yet . . . I wish that I were such a fool.
Page 261
SONG
Song of Ansteorra
By: Valeria Richila Navarro
The song of Ansteorra
One song, One heart, One Star
No matter where my path may lead
My heart is with the Star.
So long ago before I knew
The Star did e'er exist
There was a dream within my heart
Of place so heaven kissed.
I searched not with my eye or head
But solely with my heart
Waiting 'till I found the place
Where all my dreams could start.
Nothing knew I of kingdoms far
Yet I walked a different pace.
For I felt the pulse within my soul
That led me to this place.
The song of Ansteorra
One song, One heart, One Star
No matter where my path may lead
My heart is with the Star.
Page 262
POEM
The Winner of the List
By: Robin of Gilwell
Answer quickly now, who won the list?
For he's the only one that we'll remember
When we discuss the tourney in December:
Who had the fastest sword, the strongest wrist?
Answer quickly now, who won the list?
As all the fighters gather round to pay
Their tribute to the man who won that day
With heavy shield and mighty mailed fist.
As we applaud the victor's strength and daring
There is another fighter whom we've missed.
But never fear for him! He's long past caring,
Off in his tent, caressed and loved and kissed
By the one whose favor he was bearing;
So answer quickly now, who won the list?
Page 263
POEM
Out to Make a Name
By: Robin of Gilwell
He was a young man out to make a name,
A swordsman bold, a monumental pest.
By rank and title, he was unimpressed;
Be you king or serf, 'twas all the same.
He was a young man, out to make his name.
At every word he took imagined slight;
Another challenge found, another fight,
Another chance to win another game.
But as the years went by he settled down.
He's well-respected now, with rank and fame.
A man of reputation and renown,
A well-deserved rest is his chief aim.
But he's become a target, to be found
By all the young men out to make a name.
Page 264
POEM
Who Are Those Crazy People?
By: Robin of Gilwell
On weekends, when we all go out to play
There's always someone laughing at our clothes.
"Oh, look! They're wearing tunics, lace, and hose!
Who are those crazy people, anyway?"
That's what the people always seem to say,
"My God! That fellow's carrying a sword!"
"They call themselves 'milady' and 'milord!"
"Who are those crazy people, anyway?"
But when my eyes meet theirs, it always seems
As if their soul is withering away.
They live a life that has no gallant dreams,
No noble deeds to brighten up their day;
And a silent voice from deep within me screams,
"Who are those crazy people, anyway?"
Page 265
POEM
Enough to Spare
By: Tadhg Liath of Duncairn
The poor folk gathered, with a humble air --
The lord's son bade his men drive them away;
Until the lord's hand did their action stay --
"My son," he smiled, "We have enough to spare."
The road-sick beggars were a loathsome pair --
The merchant and his son, well-groomed and clean;
The father threw a coin, with noble mien --
"My son," he smiled, "We have enough to spare."
The peasant boy was sullen, full of fire --
His father's face was worn, and lined with care;
"Respect your betters," said the aged sire --
"Defer to them, mind not the haughty stare;
"Yield them all the honor they require,
My son," he smiled, "We have enough to spare!"
Page 266
POEM
Robin's Song
By: Robin of Gilwell
Give me a sword and a battle to fight,
A chivalrous code so I'll know what is right,
A tournament field with banners displayed,
And a favor to wear that my own lady made.
Let me trust to the strength of my own good right arm
And my skill and my wits to protect me from harm.
Let me face a great warrior, courageous and grim
Who will treat me with honor as I will to him.
Then on the field of honor we'll meet
We'll be gracious in victory, brave in defeat
And then I'll be truly alive.
Give me a lady, most lovely and fair
With the bluest of eyes and most golden of hair
Whose honor is true, who stands forthright and pure
Her wisdom is great and her virtue is sure.
Let her standards be high, taking only the best
And, Lord, give me strength to survive such a test!
We will each give the other the love in our hearts
To love, honor and cherish 'til death do us part
I will keep and protect you the rest of my life
And I'll proudly and joyously call you my wife
And we will be truly alive.
Give me a barony, noble and strong
Who need a good baron to lead them along
A land rich with traditions, as strong as the oak
Peopled with gentle and courteous folk
With pride in their manner and joy in their hearts
Land of fighting and heraldry, science and arts
Who need only guidance and somewhere to go
And I'll lead you to glory and help you to grow
In court I'll be gentle. In war I'll be grim
And then I'll be truly alive.
(continued)
Page 267
Robin's Song POEM
(continued)
Give me a Queen to defend and protect
With an honor and grace I can always respect
Let her rule with nobility, wisdom and charm
And woe unto any who offer her harm.
And give me a King, a great powerful lord
Whose wisdom is matched by the strength of his sword
A generous King and a chivalrous knight
With a passion for justice, for doing what's right
My love and allegiance I'll swear to you both
And spend all of my life living up to that oath
So I can be truly alive.
Give me my students, depending on me
To help them become what they're hoping to be
My cadets, who must learn how to handle their swords
New heralds to teach about rank and awards
Young bards to encourage, to teach how to write
And my ward I must train to be always polite.
Show me your youth, your excitement and fire
And let me look to you to remind and inspire
I remember my youth, and the help I had then
And the lessons I learned I will pass on again
So I'll remain truly alive.
Give me an audience, listening well
To the poems that I write and the stories I tell
The great deeds that I speak of, the dreams that I weave
And the love that I offer for all to believe
Please, give me your smiles, your support and your ears
Let me bring you to laughter or drive you to tears
Let our hearts beat together as each understands
What binds us all here in these magical lands
Let mine be the voice that can banish all care
Full of fire and glory and passion to share
And now I am truly alive.
Page 268
POEM
The Queen's Champion Retires
By: Robin of Gilwell
North to the Barony of Eldern Hills
Queen Rowan went, to choose a champion bold
A courtier with proven martial skills
With wrists of iron, and yet a heart of gold.
Don Dupre was chosen, for his strength
Was proven on the duelling field that day.
Full many fights he fought, until at length
There were no fighters left to bar his way.
He served Queen Rowan as long as she was Queen
And he was there for Queen Rebekka, too.
His tongue was gentle, his blade was ever keen
To give the Queen the honor she is due.
His duty done, he steps aside today;
Forget him not -- Christian Richard Dupre!
Page 269
SONG
The Scottsman
Well, a Scotsman clad in kilt left the bar one evening fair,
And one could tell by how he walked
that he'd drunk more than his share.
He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet,
And he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.
CHORUS - repeat after every verse
Ring-ding-diddle-iddle-I-dee-oh,
Ring-dy-diddly-I-oh,
(last line of previous verse).
About that time two young & lovely girls just happened by.
One says to the other with a twinkle in her eye,
"See yon sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built,
"I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their kilt."
They crept up on that sleeping Scotsman quiet as could be,
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see.
And there, behold for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt,
Was nothin' more than God had graced him with upon his birth.
They marveled for a moment, then one said, "We must be gone.
"Let's leave a present for our friend before we move along."
As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon tied into a bow.
Around the bonny star the Scotsmans kilt did lift & show.
Well,the Scotsman woke to nature's call & stumbled to a tree.
Behind a bush he lifts his kilt & gawks at what he sees.
And in a startled vioce he says to what's before his eyes,
"Oh, lad I don't know where ye've been
but I seå ye've won first prize."
Page 270
SONG
Woman's Revenge
I was dressed in men's fine clothing on the day that we first met,
Now I wear a woman's skirt and you don't know me yet.
You took from me my land and home, my honour, pride and more.
Once I played the Gentleman, Now I can play the whore.
CHORUS - repeat after each verse
Now It's curtsy, smile & Flatter, play the maiden, not the man.
I'll use deceit & weakness as a cunning woman can.
It was long ago in battle that I stood at your right hand,
Proud to bare my sword for you & to defend our land.
But power was a lure too bright & before the day was through,
You sacrificed the men who swore their loyalty to you.
Well power is its own reward, but doesn't slavery bind?
You're the lap-dog of the tyrrant that deduced you from your kind.
And though you thought we all were dead, well I survived that day,
To work against the crown through you, it's a deadly game I play.
I speak to you of treachery, I put treason in your mind,
You too could wear the crown my friend, If only for a time.
And when you pull the tyrannt down, then you shall be mine neat,
You'll know the secret of my past when my vengence is complete.
CHORUS- repeat twice at end.
Page 271
The Man Who Wouldn't Die SONG
By: Sir Cipriano De Alvarez
(I found this in a collection by
Mistress Sir Trude. Get a copy!)
I've armored up a thousand times
for country and for king
And many's the tale that I could tell
or song that I could sing.
I've fought in Beltane's driving rain
And struggled for each breath
At salt wars and Oleno where
We damn near froze to death
I've had my share of bruises and
I've watched the arrows fly
But the strangest thing that I've ever seen
Was the man who would not die
He stood a towering seven feet
A gaint among men
His armour was of twelve guage steel
His hide it was of ten
From a lond most far away he came
Their champion and King
And many crafty ways he had
To make your helmet ring
The battle lines they soon were joined
And much to my suprise
I was locked in single combat with
The man who wouldn't die
We circled round a time or two
Then I opened up the show
With an underhanded wrist shot which
Is still my favorite blow
He didn't even try to block
Just brought that greatsword down
And split my helm completely from
The chin up to the crown
And though my sword was still entrapped
In the dent made in his side
"What a mighty knight" his people cheered
"Is the man who wouldn't die"
Full four and twenty fighters fell
Before his awesome might
And though many blows did land it seems
That every one was light
(continued)
The Man Who Wouldn't Die (continued) Page 272
SONG
The battle soon was over and
By God's own blood he went
Off to the sides to doff his gear
And hammer out the dent's
The second battle soon began
And I took another try
Bearing a sword named "Rhino's Bane"
For the Man who would not die
For "Rhino's Bane" was a special blade
Immortal for the oow
And if he had not felt those blows
He'd Damn Well Feel One Now!
Three feet of rattan I center drilled
Then hollowed out the head
And filled that hole with six or maybe
seven pounds of lead
A single shot was all I'd get
I raised that sword on high
And buried it within the helm
of the man who would not die
He didn't even bat an eye
Just calmly struck me down
And then went on the clear the field
Of squires, Knights and crown
I pondered why this man was not
A'stretched out on the dirt
I guess a head shot does no good
with nothing there to hurt
The third engagement was delayed
To give the chiurgeon's time
To pry the sword from out the head
Of the man who would not die
A battle deep within the woods
Was the last fight of the day
And the men remaining on my side
Went on their knees to pray
"Oh Lord, If you care for us
Allow your moon to fall
Upon this man for that would be
The only blow he'd call"
The Man Who Wouldn't Die (continued) Page 273
SONG
But as we marched atop a hill
A plan occurred which I
Thought maybe could lead to the death
of the man who would not die
Upon the hill there lay a stone
A full six feet in girth
"Oh gather round my fighters bold
We'll bring this man to earth!"
Ten stalwart lads I need with me to
Strike the final blow
While the rest shall keep behemoth here
occupied below
And when he tries to fight you
From up above will fly
This boulder full upon the frame
Of the man who would not die
It happened just as I forsaw
From out the woods he ran
And stopped there right below us as
According to the plan
The men below fought bravely while
The men above did strain
To send that boulder from the hill
Onto his alleged brain
At last the stone it stirred to life
And with a final pry
We sent that boulder on it's way
To the man who wouldn't die
Knocking trees to left and right
That fearsome missle sped
And with a final bounce it came
To rest upon his head
His arms and legs were all that we
Could see beneath the stone
But when we came from atop the hill
We heard our victim groan
Astounded round him 'bout we stood
As the day bled into night
And heard him say one final time
"My lords, that blow was light!"
Page 274
SONG
Boozin'
(I found this in a collection by
Mistress Sir Trude. Get a copy!)
Oh, what are the joys of a single young man?
* Why boozing, bloody well boozing!
And what is he doing whenever he can?
** He's Boozing bloody well boozing!
You may think I'm wrong, you may think I'm right
I'm not going to argue, I know you can fight
But what do you think we'll be doing tonight
*** Why Boozing bloody well boozing!
CHORUS: Boozing Boozing just you and I
Boozing boozing when we are dry
Some do it openly some on the sly
But we all are bloody well boozing!
And what are the jous of a poor married man *
And what is he doing whenever he can **
He goes out a shoping, makes many a call
He comes home at night and he gives his wife all
But what brings him home hanging onto the wall ***
CHORUS
And what does the salvation army run down *
And what are they banning in every town **
They stand on street corners they rave and they shout
They shout about things they know nothing about
But what are they doing when the lights are turned out ***
Page 275
SONG
Frantic SCA
Words by .. Lady Brynna of Aelfstanbury
Tune .. Harried Leisure Class
(I found this in a collection by
Mistress Sir Trude. Get a copy!)
We Hurry To All These Events
As If We're On A Quest
And We're So Busy Having Fun
That We've No Time To Rest
Oh, There's Swords To Swing And Bows To String
And New Garb To Display
There Are So Many Things To Do
When You're In The SCA
No Time Have We For Sitting Back
And Twiddling Our Toes
For There's A War To Fight Next Week
And We Just Have To Go
For All The Knights Will Be There
We Just Can't Stay Away
We Have Our Feudal Obligations
When We're In The SCA
We're Going To Have Our Own Event
In Just A Week Or Two
The Autocrat's A Nervous Wreck
And We Don't Know What To Do
We Toil All Night With Frantic Haste
And Sleep At Work The Next Day
For We All Do Our Part
When We're In The SCA
So Much There Is We Have To Do
There Is Simply Is No Way
Were So Tired From Rushing About
{Slowly Now} I'd Scarcely Call It Play
We'll Be Peers Before We're Thirty
If We Live To See That Day
{Faster} But It'll Be A Lot Of Fun
'Cause We're In The SCA
Page 276
SONG
TRY A MINSTREL
By: Andregor Starseeker
Tune: unknown
Don't follow a warrior with armour that shines
His attention's for fighting first, second for wine
You'll haul armour to please him and polish it fine
When you want your reward, he'll be snoring like swine!
CHORUS:
But a minstrel is gentle, his touch it is light
He knows how to entertain throughout the night!
He's never too tired, or too bruised from a fight!
A minstrel's quick tongue can make you feel right!
Don't chase after a married man, 'twill soon make you tear
You'll be stuck in the closet when his lady is near
When the challenge is gone, you'll be dumped on your ear
But a minstrel can help you restore your good cheer!
Don't service a King, it's like fighting the air!
With a Kingdom to rule, you're the -least- of his cares!
His Throne and his glory won't be yours to share,
And you're -dead- if you bring him an unscheduled heir!
Don't sleep with the nobles, unless you've no pride,
They've one place for a woman, and that is inside!
From cooking and cleaning, you'll soon want to hide
Till a minstrel does find you and away you will ride!
Don't sleep with a Viking, let me tell you why:
Their swords are all rusty, their bed's never dry,
They'll leave for a year in the wink of an eye,
And you know they're not lonely when docking time's nigh!
Stay away from the rich men, they act just like boys
You'll never be more than just one of their toys!
They'll cast you aside if you make too much noise
A minstrel's soft caring is the sweetest of joys!
(Stolen from the Black Book of Locksley with Ioseph's
permission. Get a copy of the Black Book of Locksley!)
Page 277
POEM
Missive in Verse
By: Ioseph of Locksley
(c) copyright 1974 W. J. Bethancourt III
Being a missive in verse to James I Pt. I, King in the West,
From the Whyte Bard of the kingdom of Atenveldt, sent in the
hopes of his most sovereign majesty's seeing the Whyte Bard's
Point and Reason.
A King, upon His Royal Throne, in Majesty and Pomp
Can make the Law, and hear it read, proclaimed by Herald's Trompe
His Will is the Kingdom's Will, His Word, the Kingdom's Law
Obeyed and loved by everyone, down to the last bourgeois.
The people, on the other hand, who are the corner-stone
of any Reign, have no real voice before the Royal Throne.
And thus, it falls to lesser men to point out, in a Song,
Where the Crown is doing Right...and where It's doing Wrong.
And, if a Royal Counselor can tell the King: "Not so!"
And speak up with impunity, and not expect a blow,
And try to alter Royal Will in Curia, then why
Cannot another voice at least be heard to testify?
The Praise of Royal Counselors is cheap. Their Jobs depend
Upon the King's most Royal Will..and, thus, they might pretend
To praise and laud and glorify for fear of Favour's loss.
...and Kings then hear no truthful word unbound by flattering dross.
We know that Kings are NEVER wrong...they're only "ill-advised,"
But, sometimes, error in Their Reign can win a Booby-Prize.
A Bard MUST give this Prize, you see, and given it has been!
Shall he then be frowned upon, or told that it's a Sin?
Bards are BORN, not made by Kings. They call NO man "My Liege!"
No Kingdom's Citizens are they; their Voice and Harp besiege
The Ramparts of Stupidity...the Battlements of Wrong....
AND THAT'S THE REASON, MY LORD KING, FOR NASTY LITTLE SONGS!
And, if a Bard is told to cease, and cannot speak his will,
Who then shall approach the King to give the bitter pill?
And if Bards sing of other Lands, in tones derogative,
Suffer them to sing UNSCATHED: it's their Perogative.
They're Citizens of Everywhere, the People's Voice, you see,
And, Bard I am, and Bard I was, and EVERMORE shall be:
-The Whyte Bard
January, 1974
(Stolen from the Black Book of Locksley with Ioseph's
permission. Get a copy of the Black Book of Locksley!)
Page 278
POEM
THE TENT-POTATO'S LAMENT
By: Ioseph of Locksley
copyright 1990 W. J. Bethancourt III
I suppose that I could clank around
In armour bright and cheery
And fill myself with brewer's stuff
And be a Coor's can, beery....
Or I could be a Herald loud
And shout out ceremony
And be all Pomp and Circumstance
And full of sanctimony....
Perhaps, I'd be a Seneshal!
And run the Worlde to suit me
A spider in my web I'd sit,
But someone would prob'ly shoot me!
Hey! I could get into The Arts,
And bitch about the fighters,
Who beat each other up with sticks
Those uncultured, nasty blighters!
Or I could be a Mongol dark
And for pillage never shirk
And be a Menace to the Worlde...
But it's just -too- much work!
Perhaps to carry water
At a War, could be my trade!
Or even Scrivening at home...
Or planning Viking Raids!
Or I could be...oh, what the hell!
(Why doesn't this surprise me?)
I'll just sit, and bitch and gripe
Till those -Peers- RECOGNIZE me.....
(Stolen from the Black Book of Locksley with Ioseph's
permission. Get a copy of the Black Book of Locksley!)
Page 279
SONG
I Sang My Song
By: Ioseph of Locksley
(c) copyright 1989 W. J. Bethancourt III
I sang my song to that Crowned Head:
he drank his wine, and softly said:
"Give him a horse, and rings of Gold!"
Such honour then did I behold!
Now hear the tale that must be told:
I sang my song to Common Folk
who laughed and danced, and, cheering, said:
"Take shelter here, the night is cold!"
Such honour then did I behold!
I slept in safety, in my cloak.
I sang my song to Ladies Fair
who smiled, and glanced like stars, and said:
"Take but a kiss...." the rest's untold!
Such honour then did I behold!
to talk of it I do forswear!
I sang my song to that Crowned Head
he swilled his ale, and belched, and said:
"Now a dirty song unfold!"
Such....honour....then did I behold!
My Morals' here, my Tale's been told!
(Stolen from the Black Book of Locksley with Ioseph's
permission. Get a copy of the Black Book of Locksley!)
Page 280
POEM
To Alaric Greythorn of Glen Mor
"The Iceman Cometh"
By: Rosario de Palermo
14 July A. S. XXVI
When Inman donned crown number five
A torrid Elfsea day,
The Steppes contingent almost fried,
For ice was far away.
Good Alaric came to our relief
With arms and foresight strong;
His bags of ice gave us surcease,
His price was but a song.
Thank Alaric and Inman for sharing
Wisdom with thoughtless rubes;
Cold hands, warm heart, whether bearing
A handful of crowns or cubes.
Note: At the fifth coronation of His Grace Inman, Don Alaric
kindly supplied the Steppes table with ice from his personal
stores, thus sparing us the journey to get some. At that time,
he remarked that we owed him a debt as a result; my part of
that debt was to write a poem in his honor - Rosario.
Page 281
To Eric the Carver POEM
By: Rosario de Palermo
3 February A. S. XXV
Honor and word-fame to Eric, rune-wise.
From land of sun's rising came forth this carver
Cunning in cut-craft, learned in that lore
In handling horn for a haft or a hilt.
Who schooled him in scribing? Meridien Angus,
Student of Odin, source of that kenning.
No master had pupil more skillful and clever,
Making of measure the mead horn of mirth.
Not fearful of fighting, he wields mace fairly,
Leaves anger on list field when battle is broken,
And turns not his heart against victor or vanquished.
Good use he makes of the gifts of the gods,
Honoring life through what life leaves behind
Taking for payment no silver, no gold
Only pride in his presents and praise of good men,
These best indeed, for those who know value.
Good Eric merits honor with a spirit that is pure,
And laughing heart wide open, and fingers strong and sure.
Page 282
SONG
To Robin of Gilwell
By: Rosario de Palermo
4 November A. S. XXV
R ight fit for praise this man that I now sing;
O ur land he bears on shoulders strong as oaks.
B aron of the Steppes, all deeds of valor spring
I nspired from his hands, like masterstrokes.
N ow my poor tongue, find guidance from above
O r heaven, or his lip where a mustache grows;
F or jesting, singing, fighting, dancing, love
G ive him more fame than any bard could show.
I 've learned that this man, whose subjects honor him most
L eads them in kind, by praising earns my praise;
W ho sits not at table without seeking others to toast,
E ndeavors to laud their deeds in every way:
L et no man who does well e'er fear his wrath
L et all men with good hearts follow his path.
Page 283
POEM
To Rowan Beatrice von Kampfer
By: Rosario de Palermo
19 November A. S. XXV
That bright blue day they came to fight for Ansteorra's crown,
Few dreamed the name of who would wear the Blackstar upon brow.
A duke and duchess came to claim the prize by right of arms;
Each swore to reign beside the other, should one survive unharmed.
Great Hector took the field like a reaper to a row
He smote with brand on left and right; none stood before his blows.
Fierce Rowan unleashed her might upon the worthies of the land
Her blade struck like a shaft of fire, and all fell to her hand.
When Inman and the Moor had fallen they stood there, man and wife,
Each sworn to glorify the other, each sworn to take their life.
Last of the list, they left the field - their shadows strode before -
To seek some worthy counsel e'er that they would venture more.
Would Rowan give the bards a chance to tell a novel tale,
Or would her lord give up his sword, or would their spirits fail?
At last the valiant pair returned, rearmed, retook the field;
The people cheered to see their choice -- to fight, and not to yield.
The first to take two out of three would gain the diadem
"Salute the one whom you would make your subject"
Giovanni charged them.
When Rowan struck the first true blow the maids let loose a roar
('Twas not that they loved Hector less -- they loved the lady more).
The second bout was Hector's, with a blow most passing fierce;
The tension mounted then as all guessed who would fare the worse.
Each eye fixated by the dance of strike and counterstroke,
The only sound the ragged breath that snarled in their throats,
Sir Rowan shattered leg and helm to astonish all the host.
We subjects cheered to see her wear the crown, most fitting jewel
Upon the brow of she by right of arms most fit to rule;
And our brave Master Hector stood by the new sovreign's side
As the hand that laid him low became the hand that raised him high.
A strong new trunk for Ansteorra, strong limbs that will not fade,
For our great land cannot but prosper in the rowan's shade.
Page 284
POEM
To the Honor of Rosenfeld
By: Rosario de Palermo, Champion of Rosenfeld
23 March AS XXV
Great Rosenfeld! All honor to that land
Which bears the charge of petals spread apart
In crimson glory, echoed in each heart
That dwells within, and strengthened by each hand
Which Fortune deigns to number in that band.
With Fridhur and good One-Eye on my part
'Twould be no better way to make a start;
No lack of strong hearts there to make a stand.
Since far ports call me to another goal,
I'll let these words serve you in my self's stead
While I'm away. I have no fear of doom,
For image of a home burns in my soul
Where valiant deeds are cast in green and red
Of leaf, and stem, and thorn, and bud, and bloom.
Page 285
POEM
To Lord Miesko, called William the Bear
By: Rosario de Palermo
3 November A. S. XXV
Hail Lord Miesko, great William the Bear!
Full well in song he could his deeds rename.
No man more furious gave sword and shield name,
Yet ever gentle, courteous, and fair.
Second champion of Steppes beyond compare --
Don Tivar was the first to earn that fame --
By him Kiami and Galen were tamed;
The Bear gave his own cross as equal share.
A raging bear he strode the Outlands field,
And yet for Duchess Willow wove a heart;
The last unbelted Ansteorran to yield,
But ever grace and honor were his part;
Awarded the Dragon's Tooth of the Midrealm,
There is no better man now under helm.
Note: This poem was composed in two hours at the Steppes Baronial
Eistedfodd last November. The subject was drawn at random; at the
time I did not know who Lord William was. - Rosario
And a note from Stephen. Since this poem was written, William
the Bear has received his belt and chain. And this poem is the
only thing I have ever seen that would indicate that William has
any name other than William. (Willy-Bear withstanding!)
And since the previous note was written, the bear has been
crowned King of Ansteorra!
Page 286
POEM
CASEY AT THE CROWN --
by Bertram of Bearington
Copyright 1987 by Dave Schroeder
At the recent crown the spectators were in an ugly mood,
The bouts were rather boring -- nothing brutal, dumb, or crude,
No one paid that much attention as the tourney lists played down,
So it was all the more surprising who had reached the final round.
Sir Percy was a shining star -- he sailed right through the field,
Not a shot had grazed his helmet, not a tape-smear marred his shield,
But the victor in the loser's list was quite a different sort,
Mighty Casey, called "The Rhino," was three wins away from Court!
Casey'd come from Outlands, or perhaps it was Caid,
And on one thing all the fighters who had fought him were agreed,
Like the fabled brontosaurus with its microscopic brain,
It took Casey's nervous system several _weeks_ to notice pain.
Short and squat and powerful the thick-skinned Casey stands,
With his legs like redwood tree trunks and his arms like iron bands,
In his rusted battered breastplate and his dented beaten helm,
The people stared in shock to think that _he_ might rule the realm!
The first bout of the final round is sword and shield -- they fight,
And in less than thirty seconds Casey's killed the shining knight.
A stunned and stony silence falls upon the gathered crowd
For the thought of Casey as their king could _never_ be allowed.
The second bout is Percy's choice -- "Try florentine," he calls,
And it takes six solid cup-shots until Casey finally falls.
The collective crowd assembled just lets out a thankful sigh,
While storm-clouds gather overhead and darkness fills the sky.
The third bout's fought with great sword -- when conflict does commence
Sir Percy tries katana moves while Casey tries to fence,
Once Casey's blade flies from his hand, twice more, then combat stops.
A loss, by technicality, since Casey'd had three drops.
(continued)
Page 287
POEM
CASEY AT THE CROWN - (continued)
by Bertram of Bearington
The fourth fight's back to sword and shield where Casey has few peers,
Sir Percy goes down quickly -- helm shots ringing in his ears.
The spectators are dumbstruck for _King Casey's_ spectre looms,
While overhead in jet-black clouds the thunder rolls and booms.
The final form is polearm which is Casey's favorite style,
And Percy wasn't bad, but hadn't used it in a while,
All watch in expectation as the herald shouts "Oyez!"
The fighters tense in readiness, "Lay on!" the marshalls say.
Sir Percy tried a subtle shot that proved a grave mistake,
For it left a hole unguarded half as wide as Cooper's Lake,
Now Mighty Casey plants his feet, sky high his glaive does go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Sir Percy proved a wise, just king -- a ruler of renown,
But he never let us all forget 'bout Casey at the Crown.
He often stops beside the grave when near it on a trip,
And hears old Casey's ghostly voice reciting "Light! Glance! Tip!"
O somewhere in these Laurel lands the sun is shining bright;
Swords are swinging somewhere, and blows are _truly_ light.
We never had _King_ Casey, 'cause his fighting got _too_ hot;
So if _you_ get hit by lightning -- you had _better_ take the shot!
Page 288
POEM
Queen Elizabeth I, Poems by
By: Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603 England)
From: The Penquin Book of Women Poets Pages 128-129
One of the most famous monarchs of history, she headed a Court
brilliant both politically and culturally. Great poets were
her friends and it is no surprise that she herself sould have
practised the art of poetry, just one of her many
accomplishments. Only a very few poems survive that are known
indisputably to be written by her.
Written with a Diamond on Her Window at Woodstock
Much suspected by me,
Nothing proved can be,
Quoth Elizabeth priso`er.
------------------------------------------------------
Written on a Wall at Woodstock
Oh, fortune, thy wresting wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit,
Whose witness this present prison late
Could bear, where once joy's loan quit.
Thou caused the quilty to be loosed
From bands were innocents were inclosed,
And caused the guiltless to be reserved,
And freed those that death had well deserved.
But all herein can be nothing wrought,
So God send to my foes all they have thought.
------------------------------------------------------
Written in Her French Psalter
No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Not yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind.
------------------------------------------------------
The Doubt of Future Foes
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy.
Page 289
Liadan Laments Cuirithir POEM
By Liadan (7th century, Ireland)
From: The Penquin Book of Women Poets
P 55-56
Liadan is said to have been an early seventh century poet who
rejected her lover Cuirithir and became a nun. Repenting her
decision later, she went to Cuirithir, but he meanwhile had
become a monk and fled across the sea from her. The story,
told in ninth century Irish, is preserved in sixteenth century
manuscripts.
Joyless
what I have done:
to torment my darling one?
But for fear
of the Lord of Heaven
he would lie with me here.
Not vain,
it seemed, our choice,
to seek Paradise through pain.
I am Liadan,
I loved Cuirithir
as truly as they say.
The short time
I passed with him
how sweet his company!
The forest trees
sighed music for us;
and the flaring blue of seas.
What folly
to turn him against me
who had treated me most gently
No whim
or scruple of mine
should have come between
Us, for above
all others, without shame
I declare him my heart's love.
A roaring flame
has consumed my heart;
I will not live without him.
(translated from Irish by John Montague)
Page 290
STORY
Our Lady's Juggler
As told by Anatole France
From: Norman Rockwell's Christmas Book
p 59-62 Reprinted from Mother of Pearl, published by Dodd,
Mead and co.
(Note from Stephen. I've heard several versions of this
story, and am told that it began in period. This is
not by any means my favorite version, but it was given
to me on disk, already typed in! You might look for
a book called "The Clown of God" in you library's
children's section for another version.)
In the days of King Louis there was a poor juggler in France, a
native of Compiegne, Barnaby by name, who went about from town to
town performing feats of skill and strength.
On fair days he would unfold an old worn-out carpet in the public
square, and when by means of jovial address, which he had learned of a
very ancient juggler, and which he never varied in the least, he had
drawn together the children and loafers, he assumed extraordinary
attitudes, and balanced a tin plate on the tip of his nose. At first
the crowd would feign indifference.
But when, supporting himself on his hands face downwards, he threw
into the air six copper balls, which glittered in the sunshine, and
caught them agin with his feet; or when throwing himsels backwards
until his heels and the nape of the neck met, giving his body the form
of a perfect wheel, he would juggle in this posture with a dozen
knives, a murmur of admiration would escape the spectators, and pieces
of money rain down upon the carpet.
Nevertheless, like the majority of those who live by ther wits,
Barnaby of Compiegne had a great struggle to make a living.
Earning his bread in the sweat of his brow, he bore rather more than
his share of the penalties consequent upon the misdoings of our father
Adam.
Again, he was unable to work as constantly as he would have been
willing to do. The warmth of the sun and the broad daylignt were as
necessary to enable him to display his brilliant parts as to the trees
if flower and fruit should be expected of them. In winter time he was
nothing more htan a tree stripped of its leaves, and as it were dead.
The frozen ground was hard to the juggler, and, like the grasshopper
of which Marie de France tells us, the inclement season caused him to
suffer both cold and hunger. But as he was simple-natured he bore his
ills patiently.
(continued)
Page 291
Our Lady's Juggler (continued) STORY
He had never meditated on the origin of wealth, nor upon the
inequality of human conditions. He believed firmly that if this life
should prove hard, the life to come could not fail to redress the
balance, and this hope upheld him. He did not resemble those thievish
and miscreant Merry Andrews who sell their souls to the devil. He
never blasphemed God's name; he lived uprightly, and although he had
no wife of his own, he did not covet his neighbour's, since woman is
ever the enemy of the strong man, as it appears by the history of
Samson recorded in the Scriptures.
In truth, his was not a nature much disposed to carnal delights, and
it was a greater deprivation to him to forsake the tankard than the
Hebe who bore it. For whilst not wanting in sobriety, he was fond of a
drink when the weather waxed hot. He was a worthy man who feared God,
and was very devoted to the Blessed Virgin.
Never did he fail on entering a church to fall upon his knees before
the image of the Mother of God, and offer up this prayer to her:
"Blessed Lady, keep watch over mylife until it shall please God that
I die, and when I am dead, ensure to me the possession of the joys
of paradise."
Now on a certain evening after a dreary wet day, as Barnaby pursued
his road, sad and bent, carrying under his arm his balls and knives
wrapped up in his old carpet, on the watch for some barn where, though
he might not sup, he might sleep, he perceived on the road, going in
the same direction as himself, a monk, whom he saluted courteously.
And as they walked at the same rate they fell into conversation with
one another.
"Fellow traveller," said the monk, "how comes it about that you are
clothed all in green? Is it perhaps in order to take the part of a
jester in some mystery play?"
"Not at all, good father," replied Barnaby. "Such as you see me, I am
called Barnaby, and for my calling I am a juggler. There would be no
pleasanter calling in the world if it would always provide one with
daily bread."
"Friend Barnaby," returned the monk, "be careful what you say. There
is no calling more pleasant than the monastic life. Those who lead it
are occupied with the praises of God, the Blessed Virgin, and the
saints' and, indeed, the religious life is one ceaseless hymn to the
Lord."
(continued)
Page 292
Our Lady's Juggler (continued) STORY
Barnaby replied:
"Good father, I own that I spoke like an ignorant man. Your calling
cannot be in any respect compared to mine, and although there may be
some merit in dancing with a penny balanced on a stick on the tim of
one's nose, it is not a merit which comes within hail of your own.
Gladly would I, like you, good father, sing my office day by day, and
especially, the office of the most Holy Virgin, to whom I have vowed
a singular devotion. In order to embrace the monastic life I would
willingly abandon the art by which from Soissons to Beauvais I am
well known in upwards of six hundred towns and villages."
The monk was touched by the juggler's simplicity, and as he was not
lacking in discernment, he at once recognized in Barnaby one of those
men of whom it is said in the Scriptures: Peace on earth to men of
good will. And for this reason replied:
"Friend Barnaby, come with me, and I will have you admitted into the
monastery of which I as Prior. He who guided St. Mary of Egypt in the
desert set me upon you path to lead you into the way of salvation."
It was in this manner, then, that Barnaby became a monk. In the
monastery into which he was received the religious vied with one
another in the worship of the Blessed Virgin, and in her honour each
employed all the knowledge and all the skill which God had given him.
The prior on his part wrote books dealing according to the rules of
scholarship with the virtues of the Mother of God.
Brother Maurice, with a deft hand copied out these treatises upon
sheets of vellum.
Brother Alexander adorned the leaves with delicate miniature
paintings. Here were displayed the Queen of Heaven seated upon
Solomon's throne, and while four lions were on gurard at her feet,
around the nimbus which encircled her head hovered seven doves, which
are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the gifts namely of Fear,
Piety, Knowledge, Strentgh, Counsel, Understanding, and Wisdom. For
her companions she had six virgins with hair of gold, namely,
Humility, Prudence, Seclusion, Submission, Virginity, and Obedience.
At her feet were two little naked figures, perfectly white, in an
attitude of supplication. These were souls imploring her all-powerful
intercession for their soul's health, and we may be sure not imploring
in vain.
Upon another page facing this, Brother Alexander represented Eve, so
that the Fall and the Redemption could be perceived at one and the
same time - Eve the Wife abased, and Mary the Virgin exalted.
(continued)
Page 293
Our Lady's Juggler (continued) STORY
Furthermore, to the marvel of the beholder, this book contained
presentments of the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the Lily, the
Moon, the Sun, and the Gardens enclosed of which the Song of Songs
tells us, the Gate of Heaven and the City of God, and all these things
were symbols of the Blessed Virgin.
Brother Marbode was likewise one of the most lovin children of Mary.
He spent all his days carving images in stone, so that his beard, his
eybrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes continually
swollen and weeping; but his strength and cheerfulness were not
diminshed, although he was now well gone in years, and it was clear
that the Queen of Paradise still cherished her servant in his old age.
Marbode represented her seated upon a throne, her brow encircled with
an orb-shaped nimbus set with pearls. And he took care that hte folds
of her dress should cover the feet of her, concerning whom the proper
declared: My beloved is as a garden enclosed.
Sometimes, too, he depicted her in the semblance of a child full of
grace, and appearing to say, "Thou art my God, even from my mother's
womb."
In the priory, moreover, were poets who composed hymns in Latin, both
in prose and verse, in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and amongst
the company was even a brother from Picarky who sang the miracles fo
Our Lady in rhymed verse and in the vulgar tongue.
Being a witness of this emulation in praise and the glorious harvest
of their labours, Barnaby mourned his own ignorance and simplicity.
"Alas!" he sighed, as he took his solitary walk in the little
sheterless garden of the monastery, "wretched wight that I am, to be
unable, like my brothers, worthily to praise the Holy Mother of God,
to whom I have vowed my whole heart's affection. Alas! alas! I am but
a rough man and unskilled in the arts, and I can render you in
service, blessed Lady, neither edifying sermons, nor treatises set
out in order according to rule, nor ingenious paintings, nor statues
truthfully sculptured, nor verses whose march is measured to the beat
of feet. No gift have I, alas!"
After this fashion he groaned and gave himself up to sorrow. But one
evening, when the monks were spending their hour of liberty in
conversation, he heard one of them tell the tale of a religious man
who could repeat nothing other than the Ave Maria. This poor man was
despised for his ignorance; but after his death there issued forth
from his mouth five roses in honour of the five letters of the name
Mary (Marie), and thus his sanctity was made manifest.
Whilst he listened to this narrative Barnaby marvelled yet once again
at the loving kindness of hte Virging; but the lesson of that blessed
death did not avail to console him, for his heart overflowed with
zeal, and he longed to advance the glory of his Lady, who is in
heaven.
(continued)
Page 294
Our Lady's Juggler (continued) STORY
How to compass this he sought but could find no way, and day by day he
became the more cast down, when one morning he awakened filled full
with joy, hastened to the chapel, and remained there alone for more
than an hour. After dinner he returned to the chapel once more.
And, starting from that moment, he repaired daily to the chapel at
such hours as it was deserted, and spent within it a good part it the
time which the other monks devoted to the liberal and mechanical arts.
His sadness vanished, nor did he any longer groan.
A demeanour so strange awakened the curiosity of the monks.
These began to ask one another for what purpose Brother Barnaby could
be indulging so persistently in retreat.
The prior, whose duty it is to let nothing escape him in the behaviour
of his children in religion, resolved to keep a watch over Barnaby
during his withdrawals to the chapel. One day, then, when he was shut
up there after his custom, the prior, accompained by two of the older
monks, went to discover through the chinks in the door what was going
on within the chapel.
They saw Barnaby before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, head
downwards, with his feet in the air, and he was juggling with six
balls of copper and a dozen knives. In honour of the Holy Mother of
God he was performing those feats which aforetime had won him most
renown. Not recognizing that the simple fellow was thus placing at the
service of the Blessed Virgin his knowledge and skill, the two old
monks exclaimed against the sacrilege.
The prior was aware how stainless was Barnaby's soul, but he concluded
that he had been seized with madness. They were all three preparing to
lead him swiftly form the chapel, when they saw the Blessed Virgin
descend the steps of the altar and advance to wipe away with a fold of
her azure robe the sweat which was dropping from her juggler's
forehead.
Then the prior, falling upon his face upon the pavement, uttered these
words -
"Blessed are the simple-hearted, for they shall see God."
"Amen!" responded the old brethern, and kissed the ground.
E-Mail Fredric L. Rice / The Skeptic Tank