Becoming Beathog

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.

 

This fighter poem was a favorite to write!  The fighter is is a bard, a distinguished poet, and shares my own appreciation of Middle English.  Because I hoped to write in Middle English, I chose to write a Chaucerian Roundel, a special rondel form used in the fourteenth century (my own persona’s period), primarily by Chaucer.

This roundel contains thirteen lines, with a rhyme scheme ABB abAB abbABB.  The first two lines are repeated, as a refrain, at the end of the second stanza — and the first three lines are repeated, as a refrain, at the end of the third.

The challenge of writing in Middle English was as expected, but the real challenge was re-writing the poem, again, in modern English, maintaining the rhyming pattern and the meaning, as well.

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Baron Secca of Kent
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XLVII

(Chaucerian Roundel)

Heere biginnen the Barones Tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also
To sonne slawe ant hertes breste echon.

Of worthy knight then striken yvele
Maidens crid ant fel as al was ydo
So heere goon the Barones Tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also.

Ywis fro werreour brout acts of vileynye
Brout soregh and murne and mones also
Fro this faire quen ant hir leudis and mo
Ant so heere endes the barones tale
Ona squier swo breeght so lusty also
To sonne slawe ant hertes breste echon.

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And here begins, in rhyme, the Baron’s Plight
A squire so vigorous and fair in face
Too swiftly slain, thus causing hearts to break.

First struck down, rudely, by one noble knight
The maidens cried and fell, without disgrace
Continue now, this Baron’s Tale of Plight
Of squire pleasant, still, and fair in face.

As certain as defeat from villain’s fight
Were moans and sorrow from all in that place
From queen and victors’ ladies, doleful face
And so an end, in rhyme, to Baron’s Plight
A squire so bright and pleasant, fair in face
Too swiftly slain, thus causing hearts to break.

– 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.