Whether it be scholastic exercises composed in Tynan, the bawdy lyrics of wandering minstrels, sacred verse written by holy monks, or lively folksongs, people in Frilond love word-play of all sorts.
The Toil of Love
[There were two birds]
The Cuckoo Song
The Barefooted Friar
Western Wind
from The Lay of Prester
[Elm do grieve]
The Three Corbies
[The grand old Count of Kirke]
I Saw A Ruck-Man
[The Count of Kirke went up the hill]
[There once was a gimped man named Mot]
The Song of the Consortes
The Knights' Return
I'm weary, weary, winning nothing from this love
But toil and torment,
For no thing is so hard to get
As that thing I desire;
And no thing fills me with such longing
As that thing I cannot have.
There were two birds sat on a stone,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
One flew away and then there was one,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
The other bird flew after,
And then there was none,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de;
And so the stone
Was left alone,
Fa, la, la, la, lal, de.
Sing, cuckoo, now. Sing, cuckoo.
Sing, cuckoo. Sing, cuckoo now.
Summer is y-coming in
Loud sing, cuckoo!
Seed grows and meadow blows
And springs the wood now.
Sing, cuckoo!
Ewe bleats after lamb,
After calf lows the cow,
Bullock starts, buck farts
Merry sing, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo.
Well sings thou, cuckoo
Now cease thou never, no!
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Frilond through, from Rheme to the Harpish main;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career
And is brought home at even-song pricked through with a spear;
I confess him in haste—for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.
Your monarch? Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the Shaithim, the trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down canst rain.
Fain that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
Through years of storm and burning sun
Vainly he sought the tower again
He'd trade the sword that now he bore
To see the tower but one time more.
Elm do grieve
Oak do hate
Willow do walk
If you travels late
There were three corbies sat on a tree,
Down a down, hay down, hay down
There were three cobires sat on a tree
With a down, hay down, hay down
There were three corbies sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be,
With a down, derry, derry, derry, down, down
The one of them said to his mate,
"Where shall we our breakfast take?
"'Down in yonder green field
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
"His hounds they lie down at his feet,
So well they can their master keep
"His hawks they fly so eagerly,
There's no fowl dare come nigh."
Down there comes a fallow doe,
As great with young as she might go.
She lifted up his bloody head,
And kissed his wounds that were so red.
She got him up upon her back,
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herself ere evensong time.
The Five send every gentleman
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a lemman.
Oh, the grand old Count of Kirke,
He had four thousand men;
He marched them up a hill,
And he marched them down again.
And when they were up they were up,
And when they were down they were down,
And when they were only halfway up,
They were neither up nor down.
In Westwoode forest,
By Rushing stream,
If you see me
Do not scream.
Wound for pleasure,
Kill for fun,
If you see me
Run, run, run.
The Count of Kirke went up the hill
With four thousand men;
The Count of Kirke went down the hill,
And ne'er went up again.
There once was a gimped man named Mot
Whose bloodline was certainly shot
With a twitch of his brow
Whilst gulping his chow
He rinsed with a mouthful of snot!
Now gather round and listen friends to a tale I have to tell,
About our city Heremac and how it went through hell.
Proud city! Who wouldst do thee harm, I this cannot conceive!
But then who can divine the hearts of diabolical thieves?
O wicked night! That th' Ruckish horde spilt on the Frounter plain
Overran the villages; the women, the children slain.
New Hull, Vesay, Derwich Keep; and dozens places more.
How many families on that evil day apart were tore?
And on that day the tears that flowed made bitter the harvest reapt
While Tereus with gore-drenched steel, the conqueror, skulls heapt!
In that black hour, our fate was nigh, cold doom'd take its due turn:
They'd break the gates, they'd hack our limbs and then our bones they'd burn!
With dread we watched th' approaching host of distant dancing lights
And cowardly did we consider: was it too late for flight?
But more was there to see than ever did we then divine:
Heaven fire with deaf'ning roar fell down on crag and pine;
The Corin cold and black her waters did an hour still,
Before they rushed again afresh to twist 'twixt dale and hill.
These wonders did our faithless hearts meet not with joy, but fear
That they were witchery Tereus-sent, we thought it to be clear.
But then as dawn won over night, though yet the light was dim,
And winter's icy grip yet clung to th' darkened horizon's rim,
And closer drew the grim lights of the slaughtering horde, our foe
Every tired heart that watched, weighted with coming death's woe.
The city gate then opened wide, the terrible wait was finisht
To welcome Markham's host! The Seekers! Sadly, much diminished!
By foul Ruckish treachery and venom-sorcery
For wickedness is all rucks know and love only perfidy.
Still in their midst rode noble Gregory, the goodly risen!
Whose bravery and wisdom rallied men to heroism
They sacrificèd comfort, limbs and lives at Grimall bitter.
More than a thousand lie unburied 'cross the Corin, so remember!
They marched three days and nights, through Shaithim-cursèd wilderness,
The demon host not far behind, gnashed their fangs and hissed
But the Five were watching there that day and showed their mighty hand
With fiery pillar heaven sent, split water and split land.
The harried knights then saw their op'ning, through the ranks they fought.
They crossed the river on dry land, and they weren't caught.
For the monster hordes, blood gluttons they were, couldn't help but follow
Got halfway cross before the Five-held waters did them swallow.
So finally did these brave men back t' Heremac now get.
Their garments rags, faces bloodied, standing tall tho' spent
Still dark and grim a dawn it was the morn of their return
Darker grew the sky as the Rucks our corpses burned.
And when yer sitting by the fire, flagon full to spilling
While the rain falls on outside don't ye be unwilling
To think a thought and say a prayer for the poor souls to the east
In wilderness and dark and cold they fell to th' Ruckish beast.
And I'd like to dedicate this song to those that I've just sung,
And many a year from now perhaps their praises will be rung
From tower top on high to thank the Five for all we've got
We won't forget ye thousand plus souls, that we'll truly not.
And many a year from now, perhaps strong men will weep
For those who now walk with the Five, lost at dread Grimall Keep!
Garnfellow! Garnfellow!
His beard golden yellow!
Wonderful tales weaves he!
He calls for his pottage
And he calls for his mug
The terror o' rucks is `e!
Sidrach Landry
The barefoot friar
A humble man, but gay!
Makes miracles
And speaks with The Five
Yet for his ale
He can barely pay!
Valerius, the serious
Somber and mysterious
A man of learning and lore
He comes and he goes
Where? Nobody knows
And his mustache is no more!
Mot, Mot
He loves his snot!
And his snot it also loves he!
He makes up rhymes to pass the times
Fiddledy dum fie diddledy-dum dee!
James, St. James
So Maggie claims
Is the saint of Heremac
But if ye haves silver
Or if ye haves gold
Ye's better watch yer back!
Vandoren, Vandoren
Is never borin'
There's always a song to sing!
He strums on his harp
And makes such music
Like an angel without the wings!
Renton Hess
I must confess
Is a man I don't know well
Though he walks upright
And he keeps his word
All o' which I'm happy to tell!
Mendelor! Mendelor!
A woodsman wise!
A mix o' brawn and brain!
He's quick with an ax
And he knows his facts
And he don't mind to sleep in the rain!
Wyk, Wyk!
Lightning quick!
A new face in the Boar!
He likes his ale best by the pail
Quick! Golding! He says!
Bring more!