The Grave and Soggy Host
tune By Roger the Geliard
Filk by Shara Tunay
Oh see how a lake lies over the field,
The morning of tourney is here,
Round from the hills comes a dripping sound that chills,
And makes the chainmail wearers quake with fear.
Fill our cups with ale or wine or beer,
‘Cause there’s too much water ‘round here!
With a drip and a splash, hear the works on helmets crash –
You know tat they are fighting in An Tir.
Now the light of the day spreads over the field
‘Though the clouds nearly block out the sun;
And ther ein the clear stand the warriors of An Tir –
Their black and golden banner starts to run.
A young knight watches the tide come in –
The chance that he will see it ebb is slim,
For his helm is in its place, and it’s rusted to his face,
And armor makes it awfully hard to swim.
‘Neath many a tree there’s a lady fair
who waits for her love to return;
the wind has caused a rent, so she’s bailing out the tent,
and cursing ‘cause the wood’s too wet to burn.
To the crest of the hill free the brave and the bold (or the wet and the cold)
Foe helping foe along the way,
“Cause if we don’t reach higher ground, then it’s sure we all will drown,
and we’d rather live to fight another day.”
Oh, strike up your lutes, all ye minstrels,
If your strings haven’t stretched from the damp.
Come, sing! And we’ll cheer for the warriors of An Tir!
(But hurry, ere I sink – I’ve got a cramp)