ON SENLAC RIDGE
Stood King Harold |
by hoar apple tree; |
High hero shining |
hard battles won. |
Land father leader, |
chosen folk king. |
Gathered he gesið |
fierce Fyrdmen all, |
To Hold the highroad |
to England's heart. |
Bastard Duke William |
and his rats are trapped, |
With his back to the sea, |
his hired men hindered. |
Battle his doom, |
fighting his fate. |
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Round dread dragon |
Wessex's war flag |
Warriors raised up |
the strong wood wall |
Came on then bold Bretons, |
sons of the Wealas |
On foot they marched |
to reclaim their own. |
Flew sparking the spears, |
bright birds of death, |
Sang sweet the swords, |
hard clapped the boards, |
Died then the foemen |
smashed waves on the wall. |
Hurried Frank horsemen |
Breton Frenchmen to rescue, |
Hoofs pounding the rise, |
horses covered in steam, |
Rose up the long axe |
bright blade glinting, |
Took then the huscarls |
a harvest of heads. |
Out, out, out |
cried the English, |
Death, death, death, |
sighed the spears, |
Plunging and piercing |
into deep Norman ranks. |
Bright red ruby glinted |
on silvered scales shining |
Gave joyous beauty |
to Normandy's scrapings. |
Beat Bretons bounded |
fierce Fyrdmen following, |
Fires of their homes |
burning bright in their minds. |
Saxon and Angle, |
brynied shoulder to shoulder, |
Had beaten their foe |
as they did of old. |
Slipped sleek greyhounds |
downhill hunting their prey |
Chasing the quarry |
over emerald turf. |
Piled high the bodies, |
heavy the slaughter, |
Died many a Breton, |
died Norman too; |
Those much hated land thieves, |
wolves from afar. |
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Called out did William |
helmet held high, |
Rallied he Normans |
and charged horsemen again. |
No time for a shield wall, |
cut from folk friends, |
Fought hard the Fyrd |
taking lives for their own. |
Alas England's fine flowers |
were mown down in the morn. |
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Shortened the shield wall, |
hardened the heart; |
Kinfolk need blood |
from foemen spilt. |
Long went the day |
and arms grew weary |
As axes hewed |
the forest of men, |
The gaps in the shield wall |
dead Normans now filled. |
Linden boards split |
from heavy sword swing |
Shields now full |
of spears pointed barbs. |
Burning the throat, |
bruised now the body |
East Angle kin |
and Wessex warriors fought |
French raven's sons, |
befouled gray wolves. |
High tide of battle |
lapped shrunken wall, |
Still the brave hearthmen |
hacked horse and men. |
Pulled back the Normans, |
defeat in their dull eyes, |
Feather of grey goose |
the last throw of the dice. |
Yet heavy a board |
dragged down by darts |
Let a shaft seal the doom |
of Harold the king. |
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Fled then the Fyrd |
their hearth folk to save. |
Full filling a fosse |
with French on the way. |
Died then the hearth troop |
Harold's body to cover, |
Death song keening |
hot tears burning, |
Giving their lives |
for the giver of rings. |
Wyrd's worn web |
has claimed England's own. |
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The doom dream of Edward |
saw England's tree |
Sore split asunder |
ne'er joined again. |
As died Harold, |
last King of the English, |
So died our hopes |
of freedom again. |
Fat grew the raven, |
slept sated the wolf, |
As ravenous flocks |
of rabid Frenchmen then gorged |
On England's fair body, |
whose bones picked they clean. |
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Humble man should not |
of almighty God ask, |
The reasons he acts, |
or of the dooms that he sends, |
Just ours to accept |
and mourn what is lost. |