III. For Our Friends Among The Slain
Edgar the Unready
Francesca the Bemused
If gallantry could win the day,
And modesty secure the Crown,
This knight would well be on his way
To bringing all the others down.
If noblest Mouse with fiercest pride
Could triumph at the tourney,
This gentle lord, his sword aside,
Has well begun the journey.
If fighting fast and fighting well
Could make his quiet knight Crown Prince,
He'd be the King at Beltane's knell - -
And would have been, long since.
But Fate's hand in the lists is steady,
To no mere man will e'er she yield:
And so Sir Edgar the Unready
Lies glorious fallen on the field.
Andrew of Riga
Raymond the Mild
Come, Sir Andrew, lover of ladies,
Come ye now to the tourney ground,
There to trade in hardened handstrokes,
There is fame and glory found.
Hark, Sir Andrew, the marshall speaks - -
The Royal wisdom 'tis good to hear;
Pay no mind to the paynim dancer
Across the field, so far, so near.
No, Sir Andrew, what are your doing?
When swords begin to sing
Stopping to look at that soft-eyed damsel . . .
Really, my boy, it's not the thing.
Oh, Sir Andrew, what did I tell you?
Stars and tree tops are all that you see.
Who would win the Western Crown,
Made of sterner stuff must be.
Go, Sir Andrew, put off your armor,
Thought you wear no crown of bay
Find a lady to give you comfort:
You wouldn't want to waste the day.
Ulfgarth von Bergen
Douglas Brownbeard
Now hear ye the story of Ulfgarth von Bergen!
He came from the hills with a wolfish approach;
He struck down the mighty and laid low the knightly,
And so became Wardlord: Beware, ye who'd poach!
But laying low nightly, as wardish protector,
He must have been training for some kind of fun
That needs different skills than the Royal Crown Tourney;
For of many fallen, Lord Ulfgarth is one.
Ruthven of Rockridge
Dorcas Dorcadas
Between two worlds he stood
And who should say 'twas bad . . . or good?
Put aside the 'father', put by the priest,
Your bright sword hungers, let it feast.
But neigher 'Church' nor militant prevails, Woe!
Bold Ruthven was riven from head to toe.
Philip Dyemoke
Rima of Rockridge
Philip of the Queen's Guard,
Once so debonair,
Lies slain upon the greensward,
Lovelocks in his hair.
Ladies of the Mistlands,
Loveknots in their hair,
Mourn sweet lips that kissed hands,
Seldom stopping there.
Philip of the bower,
Lover and trouvere,
Here's poppy for your flower
Who once sought maidenhair.
Stefan de Lorraine
Barbara Fitzhugh
Here's to Sir Boss,
The Baron, Sir Stefan,
Who beareth his loss
Square-shouldered, high-steppin'.
He's valiant in battle
And true to his lady,
Protects all his chattles
And never fights shady.
So Hip! Hip! Hooray!
For Lorraine and his kite:
Tho' he did lose today,
He's a true doughty knight.
