Poetry and Stories

This index points to both period poems and poems written by our members.

Please help out by submitting material for this section.

A Poem for Winter

by Aonghus

The hag's dragon stirs
its cold belly scours the land
the raven claws a naked perch
Danu closes withered hand

The sun travels a low path
and the hearths burn well and warm
the roof is strongly thatched
to weather winters storm

The land is white in death
but this death, Life
for none could know times plenty
without this seasons strife

So take heart my clansmen
our fate is less than dire
for winter must like summer end
till then - tend well your fire

Am I Worthy of Honor?

by Conn Lochlainn O'Finn
The story of Conn has now become part of Clann lore.Herein hangs a tale of honor lost.You would be wise to heed his words.
This story was scanned in from a typewritten original probably penned in the early 90s.It is undated.

I took a journey to answer this question, because it was on the minds of everyone who heard me say the words "I cant respect the Chieftain". There was more to it than that, but it was those words which stuck out and reverberated between the walls of the then Fili's house. A geas was laid upon me soon after and it is the power of this geas which now forces my hand to write this Correspodence to the Clan.

Many cultures have some concept of honor but it is celtic honor which is the focus my article. My quest for honor went as follows; I was to seek wise men and chieftains, tell them of my crime and then ask them the meaning of honor. What I discovered was very enlightening. When a man speaks of honor it must be stated that he speaks of honor in his own culture and that maybe my own concept of honor was tainted by other elements. The basis of clan honor is respect, self sacrifice, and your word.

When one shows no respect towards his kinsmen he sets himself above them. It was told to me that one should treat your lessers as equals, your equals as your bothers, and your superiors as they should be treated... thanks Yvan. There is something to respect in most men and it is this thing which one should look for in every man. And only if you can truly find nothing in a man should he earn your contempt.

Self sacrifice is a universal concept celebrated in the annuls of Cu Chullainn. This is not just a sacrifice of life, but also one of honor. Sacrifice your honor you say? It was our greatest hero's sacrifice of personal honor which saved his countrymen from doom. It was Cu Chullainn's code to not to fight an unarmed man or use a greater weapon to his advantage. But it was at the ford that he used his magic spear Gae Bolga against his brother Ferdia to turn defeat into victory. He thereby sacrificed his own honor for the good of his countrymen. This aspect of honor I believe is the most important of all, for your kinsmen will not forget; what you have done for them... or to them.

Your word is truth. It is the basls of trust'. between yourself and others and it is how others will react when it comes time to rely on you. Your word is not as important for others as it is for yourself. It is your word which will give you social acceptance and show others what kind of a man you are. A man who doesn't keep his word is less worthy to the clan and shows he only gives his word to decieve. Would you want to thought of as a roman?

There are a few other words of wisdom relating to honor. Take pride in your personal accomplishments. but avoid vanity and do not boast of deeds not done lest one be thought of as a knave. And if something must be said, think three times before you say it. I only wish I had written this article earlier. Since Pennsic I have dishonored myself, and only by writing these words down do I understand what I have done. I will hopefully someday clear the name of Conn Lochlainn O'Finn with deeds of honor and once again call myself a true Celt.

I want to thank Cian O'Connor, High Druid and friend, for being my chronicler and companion on my journey.

Butchering deer (medieval verse)

The story below is translated from a regional form of early English which was much closer to Anglo Saxon than the dialect that eventually became modern English.Modern English draws its lineage to south-eastern England where Chaucer was establishing its foundations at about the same time as this unknown author from the west midlands of England was writing: sometime in the late fourteenth century.Tolkien, a scholar of Anglo Saxon literature translated the entire poem, being careful to retain or reconstruct the alliterative nature of the verses which are so reminiscent of Viking saga.

Some members of the TdB are deer hunters, and at least one member of the TdB is of Saxon persona.

CODE: Select all

from "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"as translated by JRR Tolkien (1975, George Allen & Unwin)
53

And ever the lord of the land in his delight was abroad,
hunting by holt and heath after hinds that were barren.
When the sun began to slope he had slain such a number
of does and other deer one might doubt it were true.
Then the fell folk at last came flocking all in,
and quickly of the kill they a quarry assembled.
Thither the master hastened with a host of his men,
gathered together those greatest in fat
and had them riven open rightly as the rules require.
At the assay they were searched by some that were there,
and two fingers' breadth of fat they found in the leanest.
Next they slit the eslot, seized on the arber,
shaved it with a sharp knife and shore away the grease;
next ripped the four limbs and rent off the hide.
Then they broke open the belly, the bowels they removed
(flinging them nibly afar) and the flesh of the knot;
they grasped then the gorge, disengaging with skill
the weasand from the windpipe, and did away with the guts.
Then they shore out the shoulders, with their sharpened knives
(drawing the sinews through a small cut) the sides to keep whole;
next they burst open the breast, and broke it apart,
and again at the gorge one begins thereupon,
cuts all up quickly till he comes to the fork,
and fetches forth the fore-numbles; and following after
all the tissues along the ribs they tear away quickly.
Thus by the bones of the back they broke off with skill,
down even with the haunch, all that hung there together,
and hoisted it up all whole and hewed it off there:
and that they took for the numbles, as I trow is their name
in kind.

Along the fork of every thigh
the flaps they fold behind;
to hew it in two they hie,
down the back all to unbind.
54


Both the head and the neck they hew off after
and next swiftly they sunder the sides from the chine,
and the bone for the crow they cast in the boughs.
Then they thrust through both thick sides with a thong by the rib,
and then by the hocks of the legs they hang them both up:
all the folk earn the fees that fall to their lot.
Upon the fell of the fair beast they fed their hounds then
on the liver and the lights and the leather of the paunches
with bread bathed in blood blended amongst them.
Boldly they blew the prise, amid the barking of dogs,
and then bearing up their venison bent their way homeward,
striking up strongly many a stout horn-call...

Calendar

by Aonghus

The nimble spiderleg-like finger
traced an almond eye
and burnt the blood soaked offering
to our father sky

then dug the hole
to stand the pole
to dance in circles round
then slit the throat
of first born goat
and tricked’ its blood upon the ground

and hung a head
of hero dead
upon a stately henge
washed clean of soil
preserved in oil
to stay the spirit’s revenge

by moonlight’s glow
clipped mistletoe
with a golden blade
and caught in cloak
the leach of oak
within the sacred glade

at Imbolc
by crow of cock
rise with lengthening day
and work the spell
by holy well
to blow winter winds away

and on Bealtaine
twixt twin fires flame
drove the cattle through
and sang the praise
of ancient days
and of our mother Danu

at Lughnasad
with hazel rod
held in ready hand
blesses corn
on summer morn
that rises from the land

On Samhain Eve
when the weave
of Neatherworld is rent
speak the charm
to keep from harm
the folk from foul intent

Clann Limericks

Because we need a place to foster our horrible indulgence.

I've set this page up as TdB Member access only, partially because of the content, but also to help preserve the oral tradition, as these are meant for the late, late night social gathering.

Kernunnos, the Horned God

Another story probably penned by Kieron Romanson, though unattributed on the original copy. Written some time between April and May, 1992.

The last of the sunlight was fading when Conn looked up to see the Ard Droi standing a few feet away.It was spooky how they did that; no cover for a hundred yards and all of a sudden there's a druid within arm's length.Conn gave the Druid a look, wondering what was going on.Kieron answered the silent question."I understand that there are some things that you wished to know".

"Yeah", answered the warrior. "There are several things that need to be explained; one of them is hanging around your neck."Kieron looked down and saw only his torc and a silver pentacle.At the Druid's questioning look Conn continued."Why does Aonghus wear hist star upside down, or is there some sinister secret that you can't tell me about?"

"There's nothing sinister at all Conn.The orientation of the star is determined according to which one of the gods you feel closest to.In my case, I wear my pentacle with one point up, signifying that I feel a closeness to the Goddess, whom in Ireland we call Danann.With both points upward the pentacle becomes a symbol of the Horned God Kernunnos.", replied Kieron.

"Then why, when Aonghus is a Poet, does he wear the symbol of the hunter's god?, Conn countered.

"Kernunnos, or Herne as we called him in Wales, is indeed the patron of hunters, but that it not all.He is the Lord of the wild places.All wild animals are within his domain.Before we learned the arts of agriculture and of raising animals we were hunters exclusively; and He is both the hunter and the hunted, predator and prey.As we wandered the wild places in search of game it was his voice that our ancestors heard.The sound of his horn blowing upon the north wind inspired our people to greater feast of valor and skill, or it heralded the death of the hunter.

For our ancestors hunting spelled life or death.If hunters were successful then the clan would have food.If it were not then the clan would go hungry.This became even more important because during the winter months, when the earth sleeps, hunting was the only source of food.It is for this reason that in Wales we say that the Horned God rules the winter.While the Mother sleeps beneath a blanket of snow until the spring warmth wakes Her.

The hunt was not only a matter of life and death to the people of the clan, but to the hunters themselves.More often that not (especially in the winter months) it was one of the hunters that was carried back, sometimes with the game, but often without.Kernunnos is thus associated with life and death.While the Mother is the gateway of life and death through the Cycle of Rebirth, the Horned One is life and death.

It is unfortunate that so many have forgotten these simple truths.many of the great Chieftains and their lords have almost entirely dismissed the Horned God as a "peasant's" god.But He isn't.He is much, much more.

End of lecture, Conn.Sorry about that, but it was just the way it came out." said Kieron, "Have I answered your questions?"

"Yeah", replied Conn, "You've given me a bit to think about, but no more answers tonight OK?"

"No more lectures, I promise", said the Druid with a smile."Someone's going to eat well tonight", commented the Druid, gesturing to an owl swooping down upon something out in the field."Looks like he's got a mouse", replied Conn as he watched the owl fly towards a convenient perch with its prize."Kieron, isn't that a horned owl...", asked Conn as he turned to the empty air. "Damn, I wish they wouldn't do that!" The owl's hoot was the only response.

Kieron is chosen as Druid of the Clann

Kieron was selected as "pro-tem Druid" at the Mar 7, 1992 meeting and composed this more period version of the affair for the printed minutes

It was rainy the day that found Tuatha de Bhriain gathered at the Druid's grove.The oak trees were bare as the wind whistled through them.They had come to this place to hear a message from Trelvis, the Ard Draoi.As they stood around wondering at the nature of this pronouncement (and why it could not be made within the comforts of a warm hall) a drum started to tap out a slow measured beat.In formal procession the druids of Clann Bhriain entered the grove.

First came Aonghus and Mainlia; Poet and Bard of the Clann.Close behind them entered the newest druid Kieron and following him entered Trelvis, the Ard Draoi.All wore their formal robes of office.Cian joined the rest of thre Clann from his vantage point outside the ring of trees, where he had watched the procession form up.The drumming stopped as Trelvis stepped into the center of the circle and began to speak.

"People of Tuatha de Bhriain hear my words.Know that as of this day I will no longer serve as the Ard Draoi.The time is right for me to resign my office.The Gods have made their will known."

Trelvis paused here to let the expected outburst of talking die out.When it had finished, Falgon, Chief of the Clann, stepped forward."Trelvis, you have served both the Gods and your Clann well as Ard Draoi.If you wish to resign your position it is your right and none can deny you.But who will serve in your stead?A Clann can not exist without the favor of the gods, and how can any clann have that favor if they do not have an Ard Draoi?"

"Your concerns are real Falgon", replied Trelvis, "but my successor has already been chosen. Before I asked for this assembly we (and here he gestured to include the other Druids standing behind him and Cian who stood off to the side) gathered in conference to address that very question. As we talked it became clear that neither Aonghus nor Mainlia were willing to assume the burdens of this office and relinquish their own.And if they did, who would fill their positions?Which of us is qualified to do so?Cian was also looked upon as a possible choice.His ties to the gods are well known, and his words wise.Yet he is not a druid and we don't have the time to train him, were he even willing.That left only one choice, Kieron.He is a druid.One trained in both our own traditions and those of his Welsh homeland.Moreover, he is willing to assume the responsibilities of the office.He will fulfill those obligations well."

This said, the Clann druids, the new Ard Draoi at thier head, reformed the procession and left the grove.Soon after, the rest of the Clann left also.Only the wind remained.

Our Eyes Steam by Katryne


Our Eyes steam
In Norseland

Our Voices are raw
In Norseland

Our Souls bleed
In Norseland

Our Mead runs
In Norseland

Odin's and Freya's halls
Welcome Katrina of Norseland

Her brothers and sisters of all lands
Cry out to Valhalla

"Open your doors and make ready!
A Valkryie Approaches"

And her brethren celebrate her name
In Norseland

Pangur Ban

This poem was written in the 8th or 9th century, on a 4-page manuscript by an anonymous Irish Benedictine monk who lived in the extant St. Paul's Monastery on Reichenau Island in Lake Constance (Bodensee), where Germany meets with Carinthia, Austria. Imagine the monk at night in his candlelit cell, delving into Sacred Scripture's eternal Truths, together and happy with his kitty, who went about his own business. Little did he know that 1,200 years later, others would fall in love with Pangur Ban, too. [copied from here, also disucussed here which suggests that Ban indicates the cat was white and that some of the pronoun usage in the poem suggests that the cat was male.]

Found in the Reichenau Primer
English translation

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will,
He too plies his simple skill.

Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

The original poem

Messe ocus Pangur Bán,
cechtar nathar fria saindan:
bíth a menmasam fri seilgg,
mu memna céin im saincheirdd.

Caraimse fos (ferr cach clu)
oc mu lebran, leir ingnu;
ni foirmtech frimm Pangur Bán:
caraid cesin a maccdán.

O ru biam (scél cen scís)
innar tegdais, ar n-oendís,
taithiunn, dichrichide clius,
ni fris tarddam ar n-áthius.

Gnáth, huaraib, ar gressaib gal
glenaid luch inna línsam;
os mé, du-fuit im lín chéin
dliged ndoraid cu ndronchéill.

Fuachaidsem fri frega fál
a rosc, a nglése comlán;
fuachimm chein fri fegi fis
mu rosc reil, cesu imdis.

Faelidsem cu ndene dul
hi nglen luch inna gerchrub;
hi tucu cheist ndoraid ndil
os me chene am faelid.

Cia beimmi a-min nach ré
ni derban cách a chele:
maith la cechtar nár a dán;
subaigthius a óenurán.

He fesin as choimsid dáu
in muid du-ngni cach oenláu;
du thabairt doraid du glé
for mu mud cein am messe.

Prose praise poem

Ecne MacOg, a new user on this website who hails from up north, was offered hospitality here after I issued my normal challenge (I require all new petitioners for access to state their lineage and intentions).Ecne's response was not typical however.In exchange for our hospitality we were gifted with the following wonderful praise poem (in prose verse).

Strong is the Tuatha de Bhriain
Wise the noble Chieftan
Swift and sure the warriors blade
Fertile and beautiful, the women of the Tuatha
in battle, dance and song
Mighty, handsom and fierce thy sons
in war and merrymaking
Great is the hospitality among thy clann
Honor and praise through the ages!

Retribution

This poem tells the story of a young woman forced to answer a monstous injury done to her clann.

The call for aid has gone unanswered
The signal never flown
And our homestead has been laid to waste
And our village is cut down

The fell O'Dunchin from o'er the mountain
Descended on our stock for to themselves pull
The Gods preserved our women and children
We were ten meadows over, working the wool

So they killed our brothers yet they gain little
Our sheep being far, though three hundred and five
Our stores were well hidden and not to be found
But O'Dunchins rage cost our men their lives

Gather good stout wool and fine tanned leather
A ring of gold and felten gloves
Put them on the pyre for my uncles and brothers
Put them in the fire for my own true love

But hold ye back the swords of iron
We sisters aid each other now
A raid we launch on they who have done this
Our burning rage will bring them low

We set out, over that mountain
And never expected were we alone
We plied our torches in the dead of night
And when the rats ran out, we cut them down

The youngest and eldest fought side by side
And many of us fell; but many more stood
The ghosts of our kinsmen now sail on to forever
And I'd follow right with them, if only I could

Return O Lord

by Aonghus

Return O mad wandering Lord
your kingdom needs you
our marches have fallen
the north winds have brought cruel men
and tall spears
we need you here
though stricken with madness
you are our best hope
to escape the chains of thralldom
weather we escape them in victory
or in battle death
with you leading the charge
we will strike with stronger breath
come, return O wandering Lord
the madness you suffer
is the madness of the world
the madness of those that feel
you cannot find the wound
but you know the pain is real
as each morn the sun is born
only to die in darkness every eve
take up your arms against your foes
and your worries to destiny leave

Rix

by Aonghus

The wheel of war spins
and the hounds of fury bound
swords of kinsmen clash
for the honor of the crown

who but I should sit upon
the coronation stone
lead the hoard to glory
and shake the walls of Rome

My cousins all contend
think they better than I
but from my gorge swift vengeance
and traitors all they die

Sword fell on sword
Shield pressed to shield
my countrymen lay dead
cause pride took to the field

and now my clan in ruin
honor for pride was lost
the crown I sought I won
but my brothers were the cost

The walls of Rome now distant
and my thoughts they swim in wine
the legions conquer Gaul
and the shame of it is mine

The Birth of the Boyne

from "Celtic Myths and Legends"
by Charles Squire
1997 Portland House (a division of Random House)
New York, ISBN 0-517-18932-1, page 55
Chapter: The Gods of the Gaels

[] actual footnote in the book
{} my comments

The Dagda's wife was called Boann. She was connected in legend with the River Boyne[1], to which she gave it's name, and, indeed, its very existence.Formerly there was only a well [2], shaded by nine magic hazel trees.These trees bore crimson nuts, and it was the property of the nuts that whoever ate of them immediately became possessed of the knowledge of everything that was in the world.The story is, in fact, a Gaelic version of the Hebrew myth of the 'Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil'. {3}One class of creatures alone had this privilege - divine salmon who lived in the well, and swallowed the nuts as they dropped from the trees into the water, and thus knew all things, and appear in legend as the 'Salmons of Knowledge'. All others, even the highest gods were forbidden to approach the place. Only Boann, with the proverbial woman's curiosity, dared to disobey this fixed law.She came towards the sacred well but, as she did so, its waters rose up at her, and drove her away before them in a mighty, rushing flood.She escaped; but the waters never returned. They made the Boyne; and as for the all knowing inhabitants of the well, they wandered disconsolately through the depths of the river looking in vain for their lost nuts. One of these salmon was afterwards eaten by the famous Finn Mac Coul, upon whom all its omniscience descended [4].This way of accounting for the existence of a river is a favorite one in Irish legend. It is told also of the River Shannon, which burst like the Boyne, from an inviolable well, to pursue another presumptuous nymph called Sinann, a grandaughter of the sea-god Lir.[5]

[1] The story is told in the Book of Leinster.
{my commentary: The Book of Leinster is a manuscript of the Twelfth Century.It is a collection of stories and poems of the Irish countryside compiled by monks who recognized that the oral histories and traditions of the Irish people were fast dissapearing and decided to collect them into a written form.Not all stories are contemporary with the compilation of the book, for example, the version of 'The Tain' given in it probably dates from the eigth. Also, there is a decidedly Christian bent to some of the obviously originally Pagan stories that must certainly have been inserted by the monks at the time of writing - by the way, the Dagda was the 'good god', the father of the gods. He was 'good at' stuff not necessarily 'good hearted'}

[2] Now called the 'Trinity Well'

{3} It does not say anywhere in the book whether or not there is any evidence that the story developed after contact with the Christians ~450A.D. (St. Patrick) or that it is definitely based on the Hebrew story, or if it is just similar. Possibly, since the only stories we have were written down by Chrisitan monks, the original Pagan myth has been adapted and changed by the writers - who knows!

[4] See chap. XIV 'Finn and the Fenians' {Although some historians give Finn (a great hero of Irish legend) an actual date in history of 238AD and believe the lineage given in the Book of Leinster to be historical fact, most modern scholars believe it more likely that Finn (which means 'fair') is another mythical ancestor of the Gaels much like Cuchulain and his band; born more out of the great boasts and tale-spinning common to Irish folk than actual deeds}

[5] Book of Leinster. A paraphrase of the story will be found in O'Curry's 'Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish', vol. II p.143

The Dagda and the Rain


by Aonghus

I weep only when it rains
none save the Dagda knows my pain
for the rains hide my tears
for the one who was so dear
The thunder hides my wailing
for his long ship has set to sailing
The lightning hides my anger
for loss of friend and brother
known to no other
save the Dagda when it rains

The Morrighan

(Comment from the AOL Message board)
Erlan
Sep 18, 2000 22:26

The Morrighan

A little lesson as we approach the ending summer season in preperation for Samhain. The Morrighan is the Goddess of renewal. She is also known as a Goddess of Battle. With this she is also playing the role of the triple Goddess, Nenhaink Badbh and Macha. It is said that you will see a crow over the battlefields as she scavenges the dead. That crow is she. As many of the Celtic Goddesses, she is similarly connected with sexuality and fertility. She meets with the Dagda on the eve of Samhain and mates with him. Their meeting and joining marks the coming together of the powers of the Celtic world and the ending of the summer season. As she mates, her battle side is put aside and as the mate of the father of the Gods, she prepares th eland for germination and preparation of winter. The Sheela na Gig, a carved figure is assiciated with the Morrighan. She is often shown as a hag with a mocking face and both hands opening her distended vulva. This particular Sheela makes the connection between the tomb (death) and life, or the essential threshold between the worlds. It is on this eve that the doors open between the worlds as we will gather together to welcome the wisdom of winter. It might be interesting to have carved statues around the camp area this year. I encourage you to try and make a Sheela na Gig in the image of the Morrighan out of any material that you want ot work in. They will be blessed and put in strategic places around the fire site. With that and the Dagda, more stoking might not be needed. Until Samhain Erlan Nordenskol, your Druid

The Smith of Battle

by Aonghus

My sword is my hammer;
The enemy my anvil.
Sparks of blood shall rain from each blow.
With each bellowing breath,
the fire of death grows stronger;
my shield a wooden windlass
to hold hot iron at bay.
My chain apron shall keep me from burning
and when I’m through beating and turning,
I’ll quench the heat within you;
Sell the steel
and toss the slag away.
I am the smith of battle;
My forge is war.

Untitled

by Falgon

And so brave men of Erin
Go run to your sword and spear
The horns of battle blare on the wind
The call to honor and courage sing to you

The battle is called, all men gather
Chariots rumble down the field
Horses trample waving grass
Banners, standards wave in the summer breeze

Old hatreds put aside, feuds abandoned for the day
You gather as brothers, defenders of Erin's shores
To strike upon your common foe, Danu's sword
Drive the Saxon raider back into the sea

Cowardly Saxon women stealer, child killer
Dog of Roman kennels prepare to die
Morrigan and her sisters will feed well this day
United in this cause your fate is bloody death

The battle erupts, trumpets sound the charge
Steel sings men and horses scream fury
Clan heroes pave the bloody path. Dagda's might
Irish warriors sow Saxon flesh as wheat

Cowardly Saxon run from the fight defeated
Flee back to your holes across the sea
Learn again of Irish might, dogs of Rome
Manannan sweeps you from our land, our sight

Songs of triumph, valor and honor in battle
The bards and minstrels fill the air with song
Toasted victory, boasted kills, battle deeds
Trophies taken freshly hung praises to Lugh

So beware Rome and lap dog Saxon
When you land your horde on Irish shores
You will not be met by women screams, children's cries
But gleaming spears and hungry Irish swords.

Volund Turns Out Not to Be Dead

At our Imbolc planning meeting, Volund neglected to advise that he wouldn't attend in advance.Naturally we all assumed he had been set upon by one or another disasters.When it became apparent that Volund was not dead at all, the Chieftan requested a satire which was delivered at Imbolc.More or less as below

/ / / / /

Horror and dread steal over us

One who is expected has not arrived.What could have happened?

The Saxon feels:'he must have been kidnapped'

'no, hanged by brigands' cries Sabha

'surely', Guthrum notes, 'he has merely drowned in his soup'

Brogan is sure he has been eaten by wolves

The chieftan is hopeful for our member's safety:'he's lucky, and i'm confident his fingers are only completely crushed, and his tongue is swollen from eating bees to survive'

I am the bard, but for now can only keen softly in the corner, trying not to scare the children.

But now, joy is upon us.Volund you are alive!!Thank you for surviving your ordeal, which is too horrible for you to detail.A great sacrifice should be made to show our gratitude for your deliverance.

War Chant Aon

by Aonghus

The druids eye scans the heaven
The druids eye scans the heaven
The druids eye scans the heaven
Blackness rides the sky

None can tell what fate is doing
But omens tell bad deed brewing
Flesh the Morrigan is stewing
Death will come this day

Put aside your quarrel kinsmen
Put aside your quarrel kinsmen
Put aside your quarrel kinsmen
Foe-men ride the tide

Hone your sword and tack your horses
Join your clan unite the forces
Hold your ground and guard your courses
War is on the wind

We stand the line shoulder shoulder
We stand the line shoulder shoulder
We stand the line shoulder shoulder
Live or die as one

Be still your fear for on they come
And sate your sword ere day is done
Behold! The cowards turn and run
We have won the day

Where do your bones lay Jack

by Aonghus

Where is the scycle Jack
the corn is gold and ripe

I’ve beaten it into a blade, Woman
and it off to war I fight

When will you return Jack
and the brown land tend

Well dead men pull no rake, Woman
so I’ll not see you again

Where do your bones lay Jack
so I may lay a flowered wreath

They were broke and ground to smoke
so spare your weav’ed grief

How does your soul Jack
where has it gone to sleep

To Hell! To Hell! my soul hath fell
and for me the angels weep

The Lay of the Faithless

As the Clann's Fili, one of my responsibilities is the writing and reciting of poetry.In Celtic society, the poet commanded respect, not least because of his punitive power as a satirist.To be satirized by the poet was something to be feared because losing honor ("face" or credibility) in the society was one of the worst punishments.It is in this spirit that I offer my first poem to the Clann, entitled 'The Lay of the Faithless'.

The lay of the faithless

Gather 'round the fire and listen to me well
as the tale of the faithless I now will tell
It is a sad story and it might make you cry
to learn how these guests our traditions defied

One invited to Samhain, came there with a will
with honorable intention and beer for to swill
but we weren't long a-waiting till his manner was changed
and the person we invited was with another exchanged

At the table of chance, he wanted to join
but he came without beads, without baubles, or coin
a kindhearted player paid his entering fee
but soon from his rudeness we wanted to flee

The change came so quickly we didn't have warning
the ugliness dawned like a storm in the morning
The Clann's hospitality is a noble condition,
but guests should respect our laws and tradition

And as if we weren't burdened with enough of a trial
three more of the faithless entered camp for awhile
Defying tradition, they donned not a scrap
without tunic or leine, nor cloak would en-wrap

The people were gathered and wearing their masks
while the Druid was busy with druidical tasks
but we felt like bad actors put up on a stage
the magic dispelled was enough to enrage

The druid led the people on the path through the wood
to the circle in the clearing where the wickerman stood
he cast the bones as the fire was smoking
but his spell was broken by their insensitive joking

The lay of the faithless is not yet at an end
we must all agree, and these errors amend
In future we'll challenge all those who defame
We should raise up our voice, and our honor reclaim!