The Craven Bawdy Host
tune By Roger the Geliard
Filk by Shara Tunay and Iam ameson
O see how the sun shines over the field
The morning of battle is gone.
There in the glen is the place where battle’s been,
And we don’t really care which side ‘as won.
Fill our cups with ale or wine or beer
For we’re all bloody peasants ‘round here
And we’ll knock back a toast to our craven bawdy host,
Wot serves all the peasant of An Tir.
Now the light of the sun sets behind the hill;
The dying look the same as the dead,
And out of the wood comnes the An Tir peasanthood –
For lot they’ll bash the dying on the head.
O see them advance like a pack of rats,
Each one with his sack and his club;
Now they search with great cheer for the armor of An Tir
Lyin’ there upon the bloody mud.
By many a fire there’s a lust wench
Waiting for the peasants to return
Her clothes are all in threads and she’s turning back the beds
And dreamin’ of the loot that she will earn.
To the crest of the hill work the crav’n and the old
Where the slain thickly lie upon the field;
Now, alone in the drear, fight the peasants of An Tir –
The prize is a dented heater shield.
O, pick up your loot, all ye peasant,
Whose skill is renoiuned far and wide.
Come search once again through the foolish band of men
Who died in the battle for their pride.