Aneleda Falconbridge

Ever wonder why those big thunderstorms seem to come in on the weekends……

“Saturday Night Up In Asgard”

We were wandering about in the fjords
Our longship was up on the sand
When we heard a mighty rumble
That shook both the sea and the land

We fled to the nearest township
Taking refuge within the mead hall
We prayed to the whole Norse pantheon
As we waited for mountains to fall

Was great Thor a-hitting with Mjölnir?
Who was getting that beating, if so?
What in all of the creatures of legend
Could shake all of Midguard below??

As we shuddered below the tables
We heard a gruff snort from nearby
Where a toothless old crone set to laughing
While she pointed up to the sky

“Oh it’s Saturday night up in Asgard
And round here we know what that means,
For when Thor spent time down among us
….he discovered wieners and beans.”

We had just looked up in amazement
At this old one’s frightening tale
When the whole hall nearly blew sideways
From the force of a hideous gale.

What a sound accompanied that fury
‘Twas a noise no mortal ought hear
And the scent that brutally followed it
Was clearly of baked beans and beer.

Oh it’s Saturday night up in Asgard
And round here we know what that means,
For when Thor spent time down among us
….he discovered weiners and beans.

Now they do not serve beans up in Asgard
For reasons e’en mortals discern
But one night a week up in Asguard
The thundering god has his turn.

We stuck out the night in the longhouse
We drank till we heard it no more
“God of Thunder” now had a new meaning
…and we all started worshiping Thor!

For when it’s Saturday night up in Asgard
Around here we know what that means,
For when Thor spent time down among us
….he discovered wieners and beans.

http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/Call-of-the-Drum.mp3

With the leaves comes the war
and the call of the drum,
as we take up our honor
for crown and kingdom.
As the summer trees shake
after the red dawn,
We march to the fields
of death,  
drink, and song.

From the north come the people
who follow the star
where the ice-shattered waters
collect on their spars.
By the cold firece wind blowing
they will each travel far.
When they gather as one
all will know who they are.

With the leaves comes the war…etc.

From the east come the the people
who live by the sea,
farming salt-scented meadows
bringing fish to the quay,
working the sweet land
beneath the ash tree.
When they gather as one
all men shall be kept free.

With the leaves comes the war…etc.

From the south come the people
who live in the wood
sustained by the mountains
as only they could,
stalking wild creatures
with a bow and a hood.
When they gather as one
all will be as it should.

With the leaves comes the war…etc.

From the west come the people
who live on the plain
where hunting is easy
and the earth gives fine grain.
They work and they sing
and they never complain.
When they gather as one
their foes shall find pain.

With the leaves comes the war…etc.

From all paths come the people,
and all places between,
bearing banners all colors
and bright weapons keen.
Regret to the foe
who caused them to convene.
When they gather together
their might shall be seen.

With the leaves comes the war
and the call of the drum,
as we take up our honor
for crown and kingdom.
As the summer trees shake
after the red dawn,
We march to the fields
of death,
drink, and song.

We march to the fields
of death,
drink, and song.

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This song was written before the Pennsic War, for Brennan and Wulfgar, inspired by posts from them on Facebook before Pennsic.

http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/The-Minstrel-and-the-King.mp3

 Above is a basic recording of this piece.

Said the king unto the minstrel
Late last year your kind came here
filling heads with dreams of glory
absent of a war’s true fear

Heard these tales my sweeting son did
Sang them as he learned to lead
and spoke of war as if a lover
and warriors though a dying breed

He has training of a soldier
like all men of noble birth.
His sword and harness ancient make
Their owner deep within the earth.

My best commander sent his herald
Running into my last court
With news that foes were now spreading;
a full-on war we’d not abort.

I would take the heart of that minstrel
in my hand until it ceased
I would drink his blood until my cup ran clear.
Every crow sounds like his singing
each steeple bell that jongleur’s ringing
I would drain my coffers to have silence near
And cease the sound of clapping in my ear….

My graceful son was in the corner
polishing his armor old.
I called his name he did not answer
and the door was down in winter cold.

He took with him his five best men,
though two of them are barely grown.
I cannot bear the thought of them
riding to a death I’ll own.

I would take the heart of that minstrel
in my hand until it ceased
I would drink his blood until my cup ran clear.
Every crow sounds like his singing
each steeple bell that jongleur’s ringing
I would drain my coffers to have silence near
And cease the sound of clapping in my ear….

You’ve one last breath to tell a tale
that will outlive you in this strife
to honor my boy’s love of story –
though it will not spare your life.

For tales and songs did take my lad
each one was truth, so thought my son
which led our youth to take up arms
and ride where they will be undone.

I would take the heart of that minstrel
in my hand until it ceased
I would drink his blood until my cup ran clear.
Every crow sounds like his singing
each steeple bell that jongleur’s ringing
I would drain my coffers to have silence near
And cease the sound of clapping in my ear….

The minstrel looked at captor King
and saw the grieving in his eyes,
“This may my final story be,
I swear to you it holds no lies.”

As I came past the foreign borders
I saw five lads on horses tall.
one of them spoke like a king
commanding over one and all

A hero from another time –
as though a legend had took flesh
behind marched weary retinue
with eyes a-shining and refreshed.

Seeing that this way I came
the commander said these words to me:
“Tell our King his son turned the tide –
all hearing him have sworn to keep us free.”

Would you still take the heart of that minstrel
in your hand until it ceased?
Would you drink his blood until your cup ran clear?
Every crow sounds like his singing
each steeple bell that jongleur’s ringing
Would you drain your coffers to have silence near?
And miss the sound of clapping in your ear?
And miss your people clapping in your ear?

 

______________________________

This song was written after returning from Pennsic XLI, as a sort of reaction to my own questions about what bards do, and what their role is in the SCA. It’s a bit about both camps of people who appreciate and don’t appreciate the form, and also it’s an homage to the fighting field – where I often long to be…perhaps because I am inspired to tell tales like this one after I’ve been there.