From Jutland we come

By penda_iclinga

31 1 0

A 7 stanza poem about the Jutish 'invasion' of Britain More

From Jutland we come

31 1 0
By penda_iclinga

Upon the night,
When the wolf howls,
Comes the Heathen blight,
With their evil scowls,
Their Frankish sword stained with blood,
Through the marshes they march up to the mound,
Their leather drenched with mud,
But alas for they have been found,
From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Has he gone?
Taken by the southern scum.

The men returned,
Death was upon their hand,
Alas, for what I learnt,
Was this the all-father Woden's demand?
The men tell of his fight in battle,
And that he shall soon fight once more,
But who shall tend to my cattle?
From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Has he gone?
Taken by the southern scum.

But all is not lost,
For a land to the west we saw,
Away from this land of mud and frost,
We must travel with the blessing of Thunor,
Out boats are long,
We shall go forth,
Our men are strong,
Hail to the sons of the north,
From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Has he gone?
Taken by the southern scum.

The seas seem wild,
But our boats can stand it,
For to them these are only mild,
So all we must do is be calm and sit,
Tiu's tides are in our favour,
As Hengist takes the lead,
He shall be our savour,
So in thanks we drink good mead,
From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Taken by the southern scum.

We reach the shores,
Unto British land,
Crossing lush hills known as Tors,
For if we do this we will be paid,
Up to the north we ride,
Past the great wall,
To slay the invading Strathclyde
And see the Caledonian fall!
From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Has he gone?
Taken by the southern scum.

We make for the east,
For that is where we have been sent,
And we shall have a mighty feast,
This is the Kingdom of Cent!
Mercenaries we are,
Eradicated the invaders,
We come from afar,
We are Jutish raiders!

From Jutland we come,
But where is my son?
Has he gone?
Taken by the southern scum.

My enemy has bled,
Their heads are gone,
The Strathclyde are dead,
My sword has shone,
But my stomach is raw,
With blood it weeps,
This is not time to mourn,
Because honour is for keeps,
From Jutland I come,
Now here this my son,
My life has been fun,
Now tell Woden I come.

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