Tag: ballad

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The March Home

A challenge was given to write a on the topic of coming home from war. While we all know we mean Pennsic, I chose to take the perspective of a Roman legionary who is returning to his own lands, on the long march, seeming longer every day the closer he is to home, walking on the red roads home after brutal battles. The tune is inspired by an actual Roman melody, adapted for this use. The chords, played on harp, would have been appropriate.  The song from which my melody is culled is entitled XVIII and was preformed by Musica Romana.

This song is featured on the CD “I Am of the North” available for purchase online at:  http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/aneledafalconbridge/

Dum spiramus tuebimur (While we breathe, we shall defend.)
Long has the march on the red road gone.
When again, when shall I see my home?
Dum vivimus, vivamus. (While we live, let us live.)

I wear my tunica woven of wool
though blood and sweat
now stain it through
Filth, smoke and battle have colored its trim
Dulce bellum inexpertis (War is sweet for those who have not experienced it.)

Beneath my lorica, over my heart
is the palla that smelled
of my wife’s hair
I have carried her love with me over long roads
Hic habitat felicitas (Here lives happiness.)

Dum spiramus tuebimur
Long has the march on the red road gone.
When again, when shall I see my home?
Dum vivimus, vivamus.

I carry three fibulae on my best cloak
Bought from a place
I have long forgot
Two for my sons cast like lion’s claws
Natura, artis magistra (nature, the mistress of art)

My caligae ruined, my cingulum weighs
I desire my farm,
my bare feet in soil.
Soon I will leave my pilae for my plow
Nulla vit melior quan bona. (There is no life better than a good life.)

Dum spiramus tuebimur
Long has the march on the red road gone.
When again, when shall I see my home?
Dum vivimus, vivamus.

When shall I lay in my courtyard green?
I long to drink
my vinyard’s wine.
Wrest with my sons, make love to my wife
Et nos cedamus amori. (Let us too surrender to love.)

Dum spiramus tuebimur
Long has the march on the red road gone.
When again, when shall I see my home?
Dum vivimus, vivamus.

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We Wear the Purple and Gold

…”Next I would hear a song for the East.”  So saith my King Lucan unto me at Vinland Raids. And so, a song for the East, completed in time for our Southern War Practice. It is a softer song, one for the night before battle, when the camp is lit with fire and all sit, tell stories, sharpen swords and work at the forges. It is a lullaby of sorts, started out as a lullaby for an army which will split the very earth come morning, but it became a dance for the night before battle.

This song is featured on the CD “I Am of the North” available for purchase online at: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/aneledafalconbridge

We wear the Purple and Gold
And fight for all we are worth
Follow the purple and gold
Tygers sharpen your claws on the earth

Our brothers we may all know
Our sisters fight here beside us
Tyger’s love is not for show
‘Tis the glory of battle that binds us

We wear the Purple and Gold…

Take up the pike and the spear
Swords and shields gather around us
for honor of those who are here
for defeat of those who oppose us

We wear the Purple and Gold…

Hear the blood pound in your ears
‘Tis the drum of the battle we seek
Azure paws stamp to the beat
Victory does not fall to the meek

We wear the Purple and Gold…

Fight for your King and your land,
for your Queen and the day will be taken
Eastern pride all will withstand
those who fight us are clearly mistaken.

We wear the Purple and Gold
And fight for all we are worth
Follow the purple and gold
Tygers sharpen your claws on the earth
Tygers sharpen your claws on the earth
Tygers sharpen your claws on the earth!

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Death Holds a Rapier – Ode to Jean du Montagne

“This song is one about my dear friend and merry minstrel partner-in-crime, Jean.”

http://www.mbouchard.com/misc/death-holds-a-rapier.mp3

If you are a rogue, a cad, a knave
I do not envy you
who would malign his captain
or insult his lady true
For I see your doom approaching
if that is who you are
in on hand death holds a rapier
in the other a guitar

If you are a rogue, a cad, a knave
then wary should you be
for there is a man among us
who fights with grand esprit
Honor does become him
know when you say “au rivoir”
in one hand death holds a rapier
in the other a guitar

If you are a rogue, a cad, a knave
who he has come to slay
you may hear a distant singing
that quickly comes your way
it is to give you warning
final thoughts for your memoir
in one hand death holds a rapier
in the other a guitar

If you are a rogue, a cad, a knave
polite while cavalier
if you honor king and lady then
you have nothing to fear
you may earn a throbbing headache
if you challenge him to spar
in one hand death holds a pint mug
in the other a guitar

you may earn a throbbing headache
if you challenge him to spar
for you’ll fill many a pint glass
as he plays on his guitar

Jean gets his OGRE
Jean gets his OGRE, and this song is for him on that day!

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Every Man May Be A King, A SCAdian Lullaby

“I wrote this song for my son when he was very, very little.  It would be, however, that he hated being sung to sleep, so I’ve never actually sang it to him as intended, save once when he was too sick to protest.”

This song is featured on the CD “I Am of the North” available for purchase online at: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/aneledafalconbridge

close your eyes my little boy
dream of running, dream of joy
and listen to the truth I sing
Every man may be a King
Every man may be a King

the pauper lad in tattered cloak
the vintner boy who corks the the oak
the tavern lass who stirs the broth
and merchant’s son who cuts the cloth

if their duties they each mind
then a Knight may choose to bind
to his service their working hands
be they yet too small for lands

so
close your eyes my little boy
dream of running, dream of joy
and listen to the truth I sing
Every man may be a King
Every man may be a King

taking up the gallant sword
holding close the heavy board
roads to tourneys long they roam
defending honor of their home

final battle, one to one
of the two the victor comes
to rule the land in peaceful war
as did the kings and queens of yore

so
close your eyes my little boy
dream of running, dream of joy
and listen to the truth I sing
Every man may be a King
Every man may be a King

though now you at your mother cling
someday you may be a King.

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Love Song for the Poetically Challenged

“This song was written for my wonderful husband, before he was my husband, and is also for the Baroness Elspbeth of Bridge and Ralph the Carter. It has, in its time, become an anthem for fellow Sunflowers of the Apocalypse.”

You can listen to the tune right here….

Oh she’ll hang me
then she’ll boil me
and she’ll cut me in half thrice
if I cannot speak
some whisper sweet
that will somehow come out nice

for my love is not a dainty rose
but is hardy, tall and strong
like the golden flower out in yon field
feeding birds the winter long

ah my love is wise as the bonny trees
all gathered in the wood –
not that skinny dancing willow she
but the grand old oak so good!

Oh she’ll hang me..etc

Oh my love is not the dancing wave
that flits along the shore
but the giant rock of the ocean cliff
that stands forever more.

I have seen the love of many fair maids
though none so brave and true –
Dear, if I wanted just the fairest maid,
I’d not be in love with you!

(the Lady replies)

Oh she’ll hang me
then she’ll boil me
and she’ll cut me in half thrice
if I cannot speak
some whisper sweet
that will somehow come out nice

Oh I’ll hang you
and I’ll boil you!
and I would cut you in half thrice
but you have not said
one single word
that was not fair and nice

You say I am strong as the sturdy oak
that flimsy I will not be,
nor a sweet and sheltered fading rose
that the sun will never see!

True, the fairest maid may not be I
of those across the land,
but my love for you is of solid rock
while they are grains of sand.

So I’ll hang – your coat
and I’ll boil – some tea
and the new bread I will slice.
Now give up for me
thy poetry
here just come and kiss me thrice.

So I’ll hang your coat
and I’ll boil some tea
and the new bread I will slice
now give up for me
thy poetry
here just come and kiss me thrice

So give up for me
thy poetry
here just come and kiss me thrice.

so give up for me / I’ll give up for thee
thy poetry / my poetry
here just come / I’ll just come
and kiss me thrice / and kiss thee thrice.

Words and Music ©2003 by Monique M Bouchard, known in the Society as Aneleda Cytheria Falkonbridge.