Category: Fighter Poems

Lord Fearghus Cochrane
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. L

(Standard Habbie)

“Claymores ready!” ‘twas Herald’s cry
Lord Fearghus stood, prepared to die
(As heroes do – let Fate decide
The corbie’s feast).
But Patrick brought a gallus fight
For quick defeat.

A second cry past hooded crow
But Cochrane’s broadsword was too slow
And Adam dunt a heavy blow
Upon this mac.
And gentle, bigly Fearghus, lo!
He fell a-back.

For ev’ry man that stood to fight
And bring the Victor wha’ be right
To wear the Caid crown Twelfth Night
This rhyme I make
And for each fallen hero cite
A tearless wake.

For heroes, praise is our reply
Upon their deeds we all rely
Their songs become our battle cry
We will not grieve.
But in our hearts we hold them aye
So this I scrieve.

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–Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . .  is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

THLord Jethro de Calce des Excurtynyx
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. LI

(rondeau)

My banner waves against the tourney sky
And oversees the field with eagle’s eye.
My courage mounts beneath Apollo’s blaze
As drums of battle clear the morning haze
And wings of eagle flutters a reply.

Great sword in hand, first victory is mine
I meet my foe with final lullaby.
And when he falls, one fading final gaze
My banner waves.

The end will come; that’s nothing I deny
One day I’ll hear a final battle cry.
Until my colors fall upon this stage
My foes will know who brought their end of days.
And when I fall, a chivalrous goodbye
My banner waves.

–Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . .  is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

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Sir Osmund Rus
Victorious in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. L

(Chaucerian Stanza)

What is it holds this curious, costumed crowd
In rapt attention to the tourney field?
The locals heard the Heralds cry aloud
This Rus knight, oft, to arm and take the field;
He calmly stood, now armed with sword and shield.
One boy had left behind his childish play
Transfixed, he waited outcome of the day.

One visitor inquired of the lad
What made this fighter so assured to win?
Was he so bold that others, in fact, had
Less the chance they needed to beat him?
It seems that task, for many, was quite grim.
To wrest the win, one must be best in fight
A crafty victor, sharp and swift in might.

The boy replied, that’s true, at least in part
Some days you win and others, you do not.
It does take skill acquiring this art
But more to stand beside those you have fought
And share the victory with those who lost.
Each has a chance to win or lose the day
What makes one win, no one can truly say.

I’ve learned the belt he wears he had to earn
‘Tis true?, he asked the boy, with chivalry?
When others see it worn, they can discern
That he, above the common man can be
The one to serve His kingdom nobly.
The crowd’s Huzzahs! are evidence, it’s clear
Your future King was proven the best here.

The boy explained we’re all of noble birth
And who will rule us, only time will tell.
It’s true, today, this fighter came in first
As squire and knights, in turn, before him fell.
But, all who fought today encountered well.
We love each other, and we want to be
Not only friends, but one big family.

The boy then asked this new friend to return
Come to the park when you can spend the day
We’ve many to befriend you as you learn
About this joyful game that we all play.
I’ll introduce you to the Court that day.
I am sure this King will make the people glad
Because, I know him well; He is my dad!

---

–Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . .  is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

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Master Christian de Guerre
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. L

(A contrafactum of the 15th century Agincourt Carol)

One man went forth upon the field
To change his life with sword and shield
And play the hand that Fate will deal
What his god knows will be revealed.
Not for glory, but to honor Caid.

Delivering blows with practiced skill
He held the field with strength of will
And chivalrous resolve until
A well-honed sword would make the kill.
Not for glory, but to honor Caid.

One man arose to fight once more
His gallantry the might he wore.
Each man to fall, the next man’s lore
And chance to be the victor sure.
Not for glory, but to honor Caid.

His heart grew still when last he fell
In this repose remembered well
And now one bard with quill to tell
This final tale to sing his knell
Not for glory, but to honor Caid.

All men who chance to wear the crown
Know that they stand on hero’s ground.
And those who fell were honor bound
To live in verse is their renown.
Not for glory, but to honor Caid.

–Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . .  is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

———<><><>———

 

I love this man and I love his consort!  Although he did not win the day, it seems only a matter of time that he does win again (for the fifth time).  And that was the sentiment I felt as I completed this poem — win or lose, he is steadfast as a knight, as a consort, and as an inspiration to everyone who looks to him for inspiration.

I wanted to do a song this time, but the form I chose sounds best sung in Middle English.  I may or may not consider translating this version of the poem into Middle English in the future.  In the meantime, I really liked the iambic tetrameter of the original 13th century English piece, Worldes Blis:

Worldes blis ne last no throwe;
it went and wit awey anon.
The langer that ich hit iknowe,
the lass ich finde pris tharon;
for al it is imeind mid care,
mid serwen and mid evel fare,
and atte laste povre and bare
it lat man, wan it ginth agon.
Al the blis this heer and thare
Bilucth at ende weep and mon.

The rhyming pattern was simple:  ABABCCCBCB.

 

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Duke Sven Orfhendur
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLIX

Beyond the last unanswered blow
A knight is called to serve unpreened
For chivalry is deed, not show
A duty braved with pride unseen.
His presence on the field is set
To win or lose, his foe is met
And those who watch await the fete
When this day’s victory is gleaned.
And if this knight is paid his debt,
He’ll stand to make this Lady Queen.

But win or no, his duty’s clear
To take in faith this day’s campaign
The best must be the victor here
The next to rule only remain.
And if this prize has gone away
He knows the best has won the day
And so with mercy he will stay
To serve as well as he would reign.
Another time would be his day
And he will take the throne again.

 

— Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

It is always fun to have the opportunity to write a Scottish stanza!  This form came to mind as I was noticing the amount of music being played that day around the tourney field, and I had the impression that the sounds of sword against shield provided an even, rhythmic accompaniment.

This is a rather easy stanza to write, providing you have an adequate number of rhyming words in the text.  The form uses any number of six-line stanzas, rhyming AAABAB, with tetrameter A lines and dimeter B lines.

 

The first notable poem of this style is attributed to Robert Sempill of Beltrees (c.1595-c.1659), lamenting the death of the town piper in the Scottish village of Kilbarchan in Renfrewshire, in 1620.

“Now who shall play, The day it daws?
Or Hunt up when the cock he craws?
Or who can for our Kirk-town-cause,
Stand us in stead?
On Bagpipes (now) nobody blaws
Sen Habbie’s dead.”

I couldn’t help myself!  I had to borrow the sentiment, “Habbie’s dead”, and make it my own.

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THLord Adam Makandro
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLIX

(Scottish Stanza)

Contenders met in Lammastide
To win that which the others eyed
Upon the tourney field inside
A shady glen.
Carls o’pairts from far and wide
Would vie again.

With chanter pipe to ca the field
Makandro made Rudolf to yield
Before Amicia’s dogs were heeled
Their master fell.
The tane Sir Ilia revealed
Was Death’s own knell.

Once more the drumming would prevail
As Scots on Edward did assail
And Mons fell to his Mistress’ wail
Of woe instead.
But soon the Persian would unveil
Makandro’s dead.

Back to the trees the mourners turned
To wait the victor wha be learned
A Royal Heir can be affirmed
Mansur alone.
This makar’s tale can be adjourned
To piper’s drone.

— Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

This was another great opportunity for me to use this fun Irish chain verse!

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Sir Killian MacTaggart
Crucible Fighter, Winter Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVIII

(Irish conachlonn)

Heroes spring from affording great deeds
Deeds that require courage and strength
Strength to stand while others are falling
Falling the way of fallible swords.

Swords clapping shields deliver the pace
Pacing observers join in the march
March of the Heroes bring forth their King
King of these lists, the best of Caid.

Caid springs from this bold Irish knight
Knight and knight brothers assure the day
Day delivers the best of them all
All draw nigh to honor our heroes.

 

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

I don’t know this young fighter, and I regret I did not see him fight.  But, I do know that it took great courage for all the Crucible fighters to participate in this very taxing battle, as there were many highly skilled opponents to face in this seemingly endless test of endurance and strength.

I am happy to chronicle his tale.  The first eight lines, the octave, is meant to introduce the subject of the poem and set the scene or situation.  The sextet, to follow, presents the poet’s feelings or conclusions on the matter previously introduced.

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Benjamin Goodchild
Crucible Fighter, Winter Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVIII

(Italian Sonnet)

With courage born behind a lover’s eye
And brothers’ lessons that would serve him well
He took the field undaunted by death’s knell
While friends held faith his victory was nigh.

Against all odds and Fate’s victors he vied
While scores of battlers all around him fell
Only blows from countless foes could quell
This hero’s will or reveling deny.

If valor was the currency this day
And gallantry the blade that strikes each blow
Each fighter on the list could well succeed.
But skill would call the winners of this fray
Upon this field two knights alone would go
Into the final battle for Caid.

 

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

As a musician, I truly love the dramatic melodic lines of this alliterative form.  The rhythms back and forth between the stressed and unstressed syllables create a richness in this spoken verse, that is at its best around a crackling campfire.

Sir Helgi remained strong during the Crucible fight, advancing on to Crown Tourney as one of sixteen fighters who remained of the original sixty-four.

 

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Sir Helgi hrafnfæðir
fallen in Winter Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVIII

(Anglo-Saxon verse)

Many stalwart soldiers // now sixteen remained
Spent spears rested // in sweet repose
And Freyja’s fighters // awaited her flight.
Death’s drumline // delivered the news
As the sword symphony // finished their song.
All Crucible carnage // now forgotten, was cleared.

Spared in death-sport // knight spurred by Gerhart
Was quickly cut // by Corvus Brother
Soon-Son of Conrad // soft of face.
Estrith’s eagle // eyes on prize
Now cleanly closed // by clever knight.
This Horsemen Hero’s // house-tomb awaits.

Sir Helgi held the field // as Hymir the sea
No slap could slight // his slackened breast
Until his body, bloody // now from blows
Which took the toll // for Thorin’s waste
Gave final fall // and he held fast.
Odin’s offering // lay on open field.

 

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.

 

While I was inspired by this strong fighter, I have been, for years, intrigued by his lady and consort, this day, standing and waiting at A’isha’s side.  This poem is for her, written in one of my favorite forms.

The conachlonn is an Irish chained verse form written in any number of lines. It may be syllabic at the poet’s discretion, but often with 8-9 syllables per line. The vowel sound of the last syllable of a line is repeated at the start of the next line, and the beginning syllable of the poem ends it.

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Sir Kjartan Daegarson
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVIII

(conachlonn)

Long and sure he stood that day
They came as prey to Liones sable paw
All but two felled by Tireach Knight
Right under Gipsies comely gaze.
Chain dance of death for sons of Thor
Boar denied this call for Winged Owles flight
Knightes beloved delayed the pall as
Fallen lie before Castle and Keep.
Weep now, Gipsie, for your would-be king
Breakring denies a victor from The Land
The hand A’isha holds will rule and
Jewels of State adorn Her victory song.

 

– Bannthegn Beathog nic Dhonnchaidh

. . . is a 14th century bard who can often be seen traveling far from her home in the Highlands with her lord husband and muse. If a good tale crosses her path, she will sing a song about it, pull out its hair and spin it, or throw it in a pot and cook it up.