Marching With The Rose (At War With Arthur) Poem by Daegal

The year forgotten, but not the tale,
The sun had set across the dale,
A warm breeze tinted sweet the night,
And we sat there by the glow of moonlight.
The shady grasses bent with grace,
And we three soldiers bore a smiling face,
The day had brought us to this shining place,
And we remembered the past hours fond,
As we camped beside our glassy pond.
And, there! The chants from o’er the mount,
More voices than any of us could count!
They chanted the name of our dear King,
“Arthur! Arthur! ” They began to sing.
I grinned upon my battle-tired friends,
As the sound met us ‘round hilly bends,
They thought the same as I, I saw,
“We’ve only heard tales, nothing more!
Could it be our Arthur’s court
Which makes its way towards our fort? ”
By Jove my eyes were greeted true,
As each, we glanced King Arthur’s crew.
Archers, swordsmen, riders and fire,
They came towards us though the mire.
We stood, of course, to offer regard,
And we kneeled at the feet of Arthur’s bard.
“Sirs, ” he said when he reached our camp,
“We wander hot beaches and marches damp,
We seek new blades for King Arthur’s arm, ”
His voice was warm and full of charm,
“Will not you three gentlemen come aboard
And join with us to fight with the Lord? ”
We ne’er passed a word betwixt another,
Instead, we rose and said, “Aye, my brother, ”
And we relished the chance to fight for Him,
For King and Country, no wanton whim.
A full year passed, and we grew strong,
We visited towns, our stays not long,
We gathered men, we gathered force,
We bundled it blindly on our course.
Until we came to see our house,
My brother’s kingdom, each tree and louse.
“Yorkshire, lads! ” my friend said bright,
“We’ll be there before the night! ”
We three soldiers smiled great,
And marched with haste towards the gate
Where Nottinghamshire, the English lout,
‘Came Yorkshire, aye - the English stout!
We met their forces soon enough,
But things went slow, and then went rough,
They refused to join our cause,
The King displeased, and so because:
The Yorkshire numbers were great indeed,
Every sword had a man, every man, a steed.
The King himself made a speech quick and thin,
And the Yorkshire rebuttal slapped us with a grin.
Their Greeter who spoke with the King,
Surely did a disrespectful thing,
In a typically Yorkshire way of exchange,
He showed his back to the King, how strange!
He spun on his heel and faced the away,
And said to his men, “Citizens, friends, brothers! Today,
We are given the choice, do we ride with the King
And share in the spoils which conquest will bring? ”
The roar was immense, but it was a battle-way,
That the horde would agree to the first thing you say
If it involved the acquisition of gold,
And of women, land and fame foretold.
He waited ’till the cheers had decreased
(By this time, my friends and I, feeling fleeced,
Had dashed to the side beneath the White Rose) ,
And then he said with his throat unfurled:
“Or do we take what we can beneath our curled blades,
For is blood the true price of praise? ”
A louder roar now that three more voices did raise.
The King, insulted, spat upon our clan,
And with that gesture, the battle began.
In a sense of honour no sword was drawn,
Only fists and feet, faces and knees were borne.
The scrap commenced with shouting curses,
And insults too, about our empty purses.
Nat’rally, we burly northern lot
Sought any reason to lay and hand on the clot,
And many broken bones were heard,
Both given and taken as the Yorkshiremen purred.
We enjoyed the fight, it was a refreshing change,
A battle of men in an honourable range,
Until my friend, he grabbed their flag
And ran away swiftly with the rag,
He hid it in place where even he could not recall,
And they gave up when the banner did fall.
We all smiled and joked about that day,
The Yorkshiremen, that is, not they.
I dare say they are still nursing their sores,
They’ll think twice the next time they come to the moors!

End.