Home
once more, tables heaped
With
laden loot and gifts
Given to
good thanes who
Matched
and met their foes;
The
Baron, brave Ramos
(With
blushing Baroness
Mary,
Killer of Fools)
Smote
stave and called out:
We feast
like fighting-men
Should!
Our good bread and beer
Matched
only by meat still
Dripping
with dark juice,
Heaped
up, for heros!”
“Heroines.” “Heroines.
Ah, yes,
heroines too.
“But our
feast lacks luster!
We miss
a mighty drink
A drink
that drove our strength;
A quench
that quickened blood
And brought
us battle-luck
In war’s
recent rampage!
Bring me
milk of Brasil!”
Crowded
room goes quiet
Brown
milk of Huy Brasil -
Sweet
syrup, earl-worthy,
King-worthy,
Queen-worthy
Greatest
gift of the gods -
But
true-guarded like gold,
found
only in far land;
Were
Heroes here, worthy?
Heroes
twain there felt Wyrd
Whisper
dreams of daring
Into
their eager ears;
Philip
and Tomaloc, men
Mad to
match their mettle
Against
enemies eager
To see
hero’s heart-blood;
They
took task two-fisted,
Swearing
to break the sky
To do
their loved lord’s will -
And they
did! They tamed winds
And
burst the bonds that keep
Mere
mortals on the ground;
Found
they Thor’s chariot,
With
happiest of hearts
They
flew to far lands where
Milk of Huy Brasil was hid.
But riches
are not reaped
Like
they were golden grain;
Those
folk that have, will keep
And
where the honeyed words
Fail,
then fighting follows.
So here
it was; grim guard
On the magical milk.
Ho,
heroes! Show your steel!
They
battled, bravest hearts,
‘Til many foes fallen,
Stood they, before bovines;
Said Philip, “Face thy Wyrd.
We
won. How now, brown cows?”
They
took herd in hands as
Heroes
should, with great strength
And brought forth magic milk.
And now
magic milk here
Is
gathered for grateful
Lord and
Lady, carl and churl
To quench the thirsty throats.
Hail
Philip, Tomaloc!
Hail
Mary Fool-killer!
Hail
Ramos Lactator!
And hail
this poem’s end!
-Written by Lord Morgan O'Lathlann, fili of the Royal Eastern College
of Bards and former Bard for the Barony of Carillion, Kingdom of the East, for For Venetian Winter Games,
Kingdom of the East. The style is in drottkvaett, or
"prince's strophe"; a form of skaldic poetry originating from
Norwegian and Icelandic sources. See The
Compleat Anachronist #67,
"Ars Poetica Societatis", pages 16-18.