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Anglo Saxon Style Examples
The following are samples, written in the Old English poetic style (more or less) for events pertaining to the Society for Creative Anachronism.  All poems are copyright Forrest Marchinton.
Baronial List Knight of the Oak
'Neath Burning Sun Book Report
Apprentice Threat The Saga of the Helm-Hat
The Kingmaker's Tale The First Trial of the Drakenmere Milita
The Baronial List of Bryn Madoc,
On the occasion of the Investiture of Gwydion and Zofia, Dreamstone, 2005
My Lords and Ladies  ||  of the lymphad banner
Attend now my toast  ||  my testament to
The women and men  ||  who wore the pearl helm
For honor and glory  ||  on the hill of Prince Madoc
First came Ædward  ||  Founding baron
Coronet claimed  ||  when kingdom was young
Twice ordered knight  ||  yet knowing no peer
Margala, his lady  ||  renowned for her threadcraft
 Sunflower token  ||  tresses of raven
We honor their names  ||  who offered their service
Next came Galan  ||  green was his homeland
Bearing the warshield  ||  unbroken in strife
Mighty as oak  ||  and much the stronger
Dominica star-signed  ||  maiden of southlands
Mistress of horses  ||  masterful teacher
Weaver of wood  ||  wise earth-tender
We honor their names  ||  who offered their service
I speak of Hywel  ||  son of Ieuan
The wielder of spears  ||  the speaker for thrones
A man of the cross  ||  mighty ring-giver
Irina the wise  ||  wicked in humor
Middle-sea maid  ||   marching the East Road
Cordial crafter  ||  campbuilder, feastmaker
We honor their names  ||  who offered their service
New hands on the tiller  ||  new heads bear the pearls
To govern the land  ||  so green and hale
In war and in peace  ||  your wisdom will guide them
Stride forth in might  ||  but remember your longfathers
Nobles who paved  ||  the path you now tread
Serve well the folk  ||  who follow the coronet
Then future be bright  ||  for best of all baronies
We honor your names  ||  who offer your service.

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Knight of the Oak
Presented to Sir Galan-Shol of Eirmeathe at Danelaw, on the occasion of thirty years of Knighthood.  Presented at Danelaw, 2005
Ere sovereign’s decree  ||  sundered homeland
split burning sands  ||  from sylvan realms
a kingdom vast   ||  for crown to travel
but duties are done  ||  as tradition demands.
So subjects gathered    ||  to give their homage 
in eastern barony    ||  that burned long ago.
The king decided,   ||  crown-bearer bold,
to honor a yeoman  ||  young in winters
but worthy regardless  ||   to wear a chain.
The lad took his arms   ||  and offered his vows
and so did King Robert,   ||   Roundpounder named,
That Sir Galan-Schol   ||  should stand as a peer.
My mind scans the years:  ||  a score and ten more
The journey long traveled    ||  in joy and sorrow
We look at this man,    ||  We mark what he’s done, 
and what can we show?    ||  A chivalry old,
older indeed  ||  than even the word.
His heart like the oak   ||   that augments his shield.
Galan will not follow  ||  the fashion of late 
Of flowery words  ||  but fickle in heart 
For duty to him   ||  is dear as the glory
And steadfast is he   ||  as stalwart no matter 
if sounding the charge  ||  or striking the tent;
though chores are not glorious  ||  they gotta get done.
Nor cares he for swordplay  ||  with single opponents
with all eyes upon him,   ||  the envy of men.
Much better the battle    ||   and brazen war-trumpets,
with friends at his side,   ||  where foes are aplenty,
where words are clear-spoken,  ||  not wielded as weapons.
For war is his calling  ||  and wise is his council
Keen generals heed him  ||  in guiding of armies.
No love has Galan   ||  for long courtly speeches,
But see him now hearken   ||  and hither stride
When hears he the words,  ||   “Hwaet! There we were,
Our shieldwall beset,  ||  surrounded, hard-pressed,
With dozens of dukes  ||   to die on our spears!”
For chief of the joys   ||  this champion holds 
is to hear in bold words  ||  the war-play of  heroes
in company of comrades    ||  ‘round campfire burning 
and war-stories flowing  ||  as free as good ale.
So this is Galan:  ||  Gallant in battle, 
stalwart in peace  ||   the pride of Bryn Madoc
Atenveldt’s loss  ||  now asset Meridian
a warrior truly    ||     and a warrior true. 

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'Neath Burning Sun
Written for the Bryn Madoc warband at Border Raids, 2005
'Neath burning sun  ||  in burnished armor
The warband battled  ||  worthy of fame
Their lord they followed  ||  a leader and veteran
He guided their blows  ||  to break on the foe
As evening settles  ||  arms laid aside
The warriors meet  ||  no mantles of iron
Blade-hewn shields  ||  serve as tables
Comrades then sit  ||  to speak of the day
The morn brought hard fights;  ||  Hall-joys tonight!
Battle-cries silenced;  ||  sweet are the words
Of praise for valor,  ||  victory’s joy,
The fallen remembered,  ||  renowned hero’s lives.
The giver of orders  ||  a gifter as well.
Treasure-filled cups,   ||  the trove of the hive.
Gather to banner  ||  at board then to sit
Strife-tested bonds  ||  strengthened at symbel.

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Book Report
In the style, if not the spirit.  Presented to a book club in 2006
This month I read     some rhymeless verse:
an epic poem     in English Old.
First spoken aloud    by lauded poets
ere Normans came,     corrupted English.
A poet, forgotten,    yet famed worldwide
for crafting this story    this saga of heroes,
Of Beowulf, bear-named,    breaker of monsters.
In outward appearance,    awesome feats
are blockbuster fare     to Britons of old,
largely mind candy   for long winter nights.
To subtle readers,   a society rich
and complex,    long lost to time
is glimpsed again,   like glints of gold
in the dark tomb,   Tut’s resting place.
One copy remains     in crumbling vellum,
but many versions    in prose and verse,
of Beowulf crowd     the bookstore shelves.
Tonight I read,    report on three.
The first I chose:      Chickering’s edition,
fine commentary.    And following that,
one finds the Saxon    and on facing page
a close translation,       the choice of the scholar
or student of Saxon      who studies the tongue.
Compare this version     with verse by Heaney,
a double edition     from Derryman’s hand.
Transcription is looser,     but livelier too;
a spirited tale   to set the hook,
to draw in the laymen   unlearned in lore.
And finally the latest     of fine acquisitions:
Rebsamen’s effort,     an eloquent try
to follow the rules,     the fashion of old
yet using our tongue    attempting to marry
the spirit and meaning; successful, I deem it.
So, which do I reckon     to recommend here?
I make a decision     as suits the purpose:
commend the scholar     to seek first the Chickering;
the neophyte hearken    to Heaney’s bright words;
and the apprentice of style     to the poem of Rebsaman.
So sample the feast     as favors your need
But fuller the flavor    to feed from all three!

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The Apprentice Threat
Written for Mistress Derbail on the occasion of her proclamation of a new apprentice. She wanted some something more than "a blow against her is a blow against me," and specifically asked for eyes and ravens to be mentioned. So here is a Saxon verse with some Irsih flavoring.
Behold, Sofia! Of my household is she!
A friend to her is fair to my eyes.
But strike her a blow, and bitter's my wrath
that rains upon you, retribution sure
until you lie broken, bathed in blood,
your flesh a feast for famished wolves,
your eyes plucked out and eaten by ravens,
and your name accursed  for crossing Derbail.

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The Saga of the Helm-Hat
Written to commemorate the valiant efforts of some fine ladies in a competition at Gulf Wars. They deserved more praise for their efforts.  This is the first of the assembled poems to be performed publicly, at an event in 2004.
So, in the waning     of winter in southlands,
battle was brewing;     the birds came for feasting.
Shields would be sundered,     spears would be shattered,
blades would be broken,      for boys will be boys.
Yet battle beyond     the blade-play of war men
was gathering here     to honor uphold.
A challenge delivered     to churl and to noble,
whomever would meet it,     their mettle to test.
The name of the worth-test       was ‘Wool to Whatever’.
Simple the rules:     from scratch to worn,
by war’s ending,      the winner to decide.
So not being ready    to rest on her laurels
Irina of Tuscany ,      Italian of Madoc,
took up the challenge     to teach all a lesson
on why her fair barony’s    brimming with peers.    
She gathered the ladies     with lore of the felt.
So fearlessly fell they     on fine woolen off'rings,
a basket full-packed     of felt-destined goodness,
the pride of sheep     still salved in its oil.
So Mistress Derbail,     mighty in wool-craft,
rolled up her sleeves     to rally to cause.
Roslyn McCalren,      keeper of keys,
Carded some wool     and cast a new spindle.
Thorkatla wood-shaper,     wielder of chisels,
took up the cards,      toted the water.
And Meleri, fine lady,      unlearned at wool-working,
Yet lifted the carders     and leaned in to work them,
and carded and spun,      and carded and spun,
and carded and spun,     and carded some more.
Skia the outlander     sage advice gave them,
How to treat kindly     the harvest of shearers.
Sage and cochineal,     the skins of red onions;
dye-worthy colors     were drawn from these things.
Sheep-coats were felted,     their fibers pressed closely,
And threads then were spun     to snugly join sections.
Thrice did the dayfire     down look upon them
with scorching sunshine     to sear the brave women
who plied their arts     on plunder of shepherds.
When battle-play faltered     in fires of mid-day,
when skycolor echoed      the wound-dew below,
when dark skies teemed     with torchlight from heaven,
their hands worked on     though weary were they.
At last, the labor     of laurel and gentle
completed by hand     not an hour too soon;
and marveled the workers     at the wondrous uniqueness:
a felt hat, all hand-made;     a fine entry.
Then Dyfn the Welshman,      who watched the proceedings,
known for his valor     not for discretion,
let slip his tongue     and said his first thoughts;
where silence is golden,      he sang for his coal.
"This is no hat     but is truly a helmet
to ward off the cold     just as steel might turn blows!
But large is indeed     the dome that could bear it;
a double-peer surely     could don it, though snugly."
Give honor to those     who hours they spent
to strive for the glory     to give to Bryn Madoc.
Their word-fame is great,     their work it was cunning,
who felt with their hands     til their hands felt no more!

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The Kingmaker's Tale
The poem is about the fight that made Hadi king, written to honor his opponent.  Performed at Danelaw, October 2006.
Long have I heard || the honor-trove tale,
of when battle-flames clashed, || a kingdom to win;
of the dangerous dance || of dueling nobles
who sought no words ||where swords speak truer.
Though on bended knee || the brave host swore
to claim the crown ||   – no coward among them –
as day wore on, || the warriors dwindled,
for when two take the field || fate carries one off. 
Follow me back || to the final encounter:
the day’s scorching light || at last falls upon
two men yet standing, || masters of arms,
quick with their blades || and cunning of footwork.
Alone now they meet || with long swords between them:
one is a veteran || a valorous kingsman, 
who wears at his waist || a white belt graying
with time and hard use, || and with honorable service;
the pride of his people || these past many years.
The other is younger, || and over his armor,
a belt of white, || as bright as the dawn,
for they honored him with it || mere hours before. 
Twice they advance || with volleys of blows.
The elder is beaten, || then bested is the younger.
The third will decide.  || Though seared by sun
and battle-wearied, || unbowed are they.
Opponents salute, || then loose their might
a final time.  || Flashing blades seek
their lethal path || past linden boards.  
The elder strikes truly, || takes away footwork.
Then falls the young knight; || his knees hit the earth.
Yet still in defiance, || he faces opponent,
shield raised, sword flashing, || for the final onslaught.
The elder warrior, || unwounded, sinks down
to face his foe || in fashion alike.
Blows are struck. || The sword again 
finds its true mark; || mars the mailed arm,
leaves the young fighter || defenseless and crippled.
No doubt to the outcome, || for doom is upon him.
Then one more reprieve, || unasked for, is given.
The elder fighter || flings shield aside 
to face his opponent || in equal style.  
Shouts of great joy || at chivalry’s gift
mingled with moans || for martial advantage
and certain conquest || cast away once more.
Though strength is flagging, || the fighters tense,
then swing as one. || Sword rings on helm,
and earthward falls || the elder knight.
Thus was the knight || known as the Aspiring,
Rex Meridies || wreathed in glory,
Hadi the king || crowned long ago. 
But ever after || in honor dwells
Ædward of  Madoc, || whose martial skill
was overmatched || by mood of knighthood. 
His valor and virtue || prevail in the hearts
of all who did witness || his worthy example.

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The First Trial of the Drakenmere Militia
War was kindled || in western lands
and many kings honored || oaths of alliance;
the beacons of battle || blazed in the night,
and captains of armies || called for their warbands.
Dusty from travel, || Drakenmere’s levy
arrived at the muster, || arrayed for battle.
The princess chose them-- || a privilege rare
for troops inexperienced || in springtime campaigns.
Proud, they took oaths || to honor her trust,
and by royal request, || Meridian colors
mantled their armor. || They marched forth as one.
Now, hear the names || renowned in the shire:
Simond, stout-hearted, || hater of spearmen,
who grumbled like Gimli || as greater lords dithered,
but game for the fray, || a grin on his face;
happiest is he, || when hewing the foe
Muirdach Spear-Thief, || the spirited sergeant,
steady in the press, || but swift to lunge,
cross the distance, || dive through shield-wall,
strike down the foeman. || The spear-hedge crumbled.
Roselyn Cameron, || new-come to battle:
her first taste of war, || she found it sweet.
Fierce and courageous, || the falcon grew talons.
Red-shielded Dyfn, || Drakenmere’s captain,
the bearer of Bill, || the breaker of warboards.
He saw their swordplay, || and sang it o’er mead.
Hard was the fighting, || hopeless the odds,
but Drakenmere battled || undaunted by foes.
They answered their king, || and offered their strength,
but fought for their comrades || as kith and kin will.
They paid with blood, || the price for glory,
And great was the honor  || their actions garnered
for kingdom and princess, || for comrades and shire.
They served with distinction, || Militia of  Drakenmere.

Written March 2007 by Ld. Dyfn ap Meurig

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