What Churl Has Pluckt ~ Fighter Poem for Andrea

 

Sir Andrea

(ballad)

 

What churl has pluckt the yellow rose

And cast it to the ground,

As if ‘twere but a common weed

And not a fleur renowned?

 

Who was it who did not admire

This prize in full fair bloom,

Who cut it to its tender stalk

And wrought untimely doom?

 

What fellow crushed it’s yellow head—

Tore petals from the boll,

And set them spiraling to earth

Asunder from the whole?

 

Whose foot then trod them in the loam,

As from the field he strolled,

Abandoned with their heady scent

Commingling with the mold?

 

It must have been a loveless soul

To wreak such wanton woe,

For all Caid, ‘tis surely known,

Esteemed Andrea so.

 

--Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

 

Not sure which Crown this was, but it's for Andrea and calls her a yellow rose.  I'm sure I can find it somewhere.  It may be in here already, just don't know what it's called.

Christine Ariadne of Gwenedd - Fighter Poem - ballad

Christine Ariadne of Gwenedd
fallen in September Crown Tourney, A.S. XXIII*

(ballad)

Hast thou laid eyes on the maid
With dusky tresses flowing
Whose tempered charm and strong right arm
Bespeak a blade worth knowing?

From Gwynedd's height with gay delight
This lass makes battle merry.
And stronger foes fall to her blows
Should they bethink to tarry.

But every blade - be lad or maid -
Must one day meet a better;
Or fight awry and know not why
The Fates choose to beset her.

She drew by rights two gallant knights
Whose prowess on the field
Soon put to rest in mortal test
The sword she donned to wield.

The peerless maid with practiced blade
This day saw dreams forsaken.
Yet for her part with steady heart
Her spirit soars unshaken.

The die is cast - the crown is past -
The new prince we have seen.
Yet may it be that one day we
Shall crown Christine our queen.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Edward and Eichling edited this book

Kyr Yaroslav the Persistant - Fighter Poem - ballad

Kyr Yaroslav the Persistant
fallen in Crown Tourney, September, A.S. XXV*

A fierce wind breaks against the door
In gusts to split the wood.
And shrieking zephyrs claw the panes--
T'would enter if they could.
xxxx"Unquiet night! It gives me fright.
xxxxWhy, such a din might raise the dead!
xxxxBecalm thy nature, cease thy airs
xxxxAnd greet my lord with peace instead."
Thus speaks the lady of the hearth
To still her flighty mood.

A knock, a knock, and thrice a knock--
The door departs its frame.
And there before her stands a man
Alight as if by flame.
xxxx"My lord!" cries she and makes to rise
xxxxBut wonder checks her in mid stride.
xxxxAs he advances on the hearth
xxxxHe does not walk so much as glide.
"I've come to see thee once last time,
And to a-quit my claim."

"What talk is this?" She feigns a laugh
That hits the flags like glass.
"You've but return'ed from the fray.
My vigil ends at last.
xxxxI've set your chair before the fire--"
xxxx"I'll no more feel it's rosey glow
xxxxNor watch its embers fade to ash.
xxxxOne moment more and I must go."
He shrugs his spectral shoulders as
The light of life burns fast.

"How can this be?" she cries aloud.
"No knight's your equal, Kyr!"
"Indeed, it took a brace of knights
To fell one bogatir!
xxxxAnd now I hear the call-to-arms
xxxxThat draws all fighters in their time.
xxxxFarewell, dear lady. Fare thee well."
xxxxHe lifts his arms in eldritch mime.
His mortal raiment falls like flame-
Bright feathers on the air.

"Farewell, my lord," she whispers as
His spirit lifts o'er head
Like some bright bird that takes to flight
In whisps of gold and red.
xxxxIt makes a circuit of the hall
xxxxThen seeps like mist back through the door.
xxxxNo more contained by walls of stone
xxxxThe soul of this brave knight must soar.
Yet Catriona can but weep
Kyr Yaroslav is dead.

-- Philippa Llewelyn Schuyler

*Thoron was the editor

~*~

I seem to recall searching for some Russian form or folk tale to hang this poem upon. I must have found one, tho I don't remember any details.

THLord Sven Orfhendur - Fighter Poem - ballad

THLord Sven Orfhendur
fallen in Spring Crown Tourney, A.S. XXXI

(ballad)

Good Sven Orfhendur came to town
The sloth hangs low in the shade-o
With one eye on a royal crown
A'dangling his orfend blade-o

He challenged Sir Charles of Dublin
The sloth hangs low in the shade-o
Sven gave the bard quite a drubbin'
A'dangling his orfend blade-o

Emboldened, Sven faced Mighty Joe
The sloth hangs low in the shade-o
Alas for Sven, he was too slow
A'dangling his orfend blade-o

Undaunted, Sven charged Lord Philippe
The sloth hangs low in the shade-o
The outcome caused fair Gwen to weep
A'dangling his orfend blade-o

The tourney day was fought with zest
The sloth hangs low in the shade-o
And Sven can do what he does best
A'dangling his orfend blade-o

-- Pippin Skylark

...always tart and crisp