MEN OF AN TIR

By Sir William the Lucky, Mistress Rima of Rockridge,
Master Raymond the Mild and Lady Trude Lacklandia

Men wha' hae with Frederick stood
Is An Tir's glory gone for good?
Why hide your fighters in the wood?
'Tis a bonny day.

An Tir glory; men of Nordheim,
Fight me if you can afford time.
Bet your helm dents in before mine,
Say come out and play.

An Tir glory, northern fighters
All you berserks and shield biters
Killed at faires and overnighters;
How, we will not say.

Northmen, where's your armor?
Rusting in some farm or
Propping up a wall
That is about to fall
Or making nests for
Rats beneath the bar floor?

Northern masses, on your asses,
Swilling mead from bottles or from glasses,
Cracking jokes and chasing lasses:
Try our game today.

Hark, all An Tir, to this brief rhyme,
To your damp and sodden wet clime
Western Warriors come one more time
Bound for victory.

On the force of An Tir splashes,
Dressed in raincoats and golashes,
As with soggy sword it clashes
With a near-by tree.

Forest proves a foe too doughty,
No rain for three days --- God it's droughty!
But the Prince (a hearty sprout he)
Serves ale and sherry.

An Tir, where's your new Prince?
I have not seen him since
He did win his crown,
And as he sat down
What is kept beneath his kilt
He gave us hints.

Princedom with your thrones collapsing,
Not to mention Barons lapsing,
The King now gives you leave to dance, sing,
And to make merry.

From the land of bog and mistys
North men came with swords and fisties,
Took the field and became grist-ies
For the southern mill.

Said, "We did not come to melee,
Single combat's more our forte."
One by one fell twitching or lay
Pale and deathly still.

Still there stands a southern fighter,
While the northerners lie dead or
Lacking arms are dying gorier.
None is living still.

Victory's to the fighter
Who on his feet is lighter.
Fast he moves his shield
The victory not to yield
And besides, his arm
It is the mightier.

Northern men among the dying
This is not the time for sighing
Join the southern men in crying:
"Hail, all hail our King."

Tune: 'Men of Harlech'

While returning from the first An Tir Coronet Tourney