War Poems

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Paradukes said:
Since the Javalin and Axe have been immortalised in poem, I thought I might as well do the same for my favorite weapon:

Fury of the Lance

As I sit upon my fearsome steed,
To screams of battle, I pay no heed
In my armoured glove, my lance is at my side

Always alert to unhorsed prey,
Across the battlefield I stray
Bringing sharpened death before my stride

Unaware of my attack,
At my men, content to hack,
My prey is unprepared until too late

He swiftly turns, and softly cries,
Now aware of his demise,
All he can do is resign himself to fate

I couch my lance, and aim it true,
Now prepared to run him through,
The poor man never stood a chance

Armour’s but a useless shell,
No shield may dull, nor blade can quell,
The devastating Fury of the Lance


- Paradukes

Comments, suggestions and constructive critisism are most welcome.

I'm already considdering a follow up for the bow and arrow, anyone got any ideas for the sword? :razz:
timmo said:
From atop my spirited charger
There's no weapon i would rather
To impale a man it is easily the best
To plant my javelin through his chest

There I spot him afar on the plains
I clench my javelin and pull the reigns
For I have a present for him in my hand
And he a meaty torso for it to land

My horse takes off as blood rushes to my head
Soon i can unleash my thunder and he will be dead
I approach my target ready for the strike
An unarmored bandit the kind I like

I am close now I can see his eyes
He realises now his oncoming demise
I raise my javelin and unleash my throw
Oh joyous joy what a wonderful blow.


- timmo
Liberious said:
Seven bowman charging fast,
Arrows whizzing past,
*thunk* an arrow hits my shield,
But that is not all I wield.

I WIELD A KNIFE!
A knife, a knife!
O glorious, strife,
I WIELD A KNIFE!

The weapons clang, and the orders I shout,
My men are going out.
But I do not fear,
For my knife is here.

I WIELD A KNIFE!
A knife, A knife!
O glorious strife,
I WIELD A KNIFE!

My valiant soldiers fall one by one,
but they do not move until the word comes.
At last I give the order,
Everyone... CHARGE!

I WIELD A KNIFE!
A knife, A knife!
O glorious strife,
I WIELD A KNIFE!

I duck under the blades,
The arrows can't touch me,
The mens chest do bade,
For the knife.

I WIELD A KNIFE!
A knife, A knife!
O glorious strife,
I WIELD A KNIFE!

Under a spear,
Faster than ear,
*slash slash slash*
My foe is dead.

I sneak around back,
Slashing the men who lack,
I stand, bloody and weary,
But... Victorious.
Why?

I WIELD A KNIFE!
A knife, A knife!
O glorious strife,
I WIELD A KNIFE!
Aryndil said:
As someone hailed the Javelin, so I hail the Ax.

Warrior's Ode to the Ax

In peace I would soar, charge gladly in war.
Behead one time a man, the other a boar.

Metal and skin alike he does tear.
For the men I have slain, have no care.


I was a woodsman born, now left forlorn
on a hasteful steed to battle borne.

Metal and skin alike he does tear.
For the souls I have slain, have no care.


In my hand, knights' bother, my battle brother!
He's bearded, his master's foes he'll smother!

Metal and skin alike he does tear.
For the souls I have slain, have no care.


Furnace-born ax, a caring father he lacks
I grab him thirstily from the arming racks

Metal and skin alike he does tear.
For the souls I have slain, have no care.


Beheading in thrill, no longer in a mill,
my galloping horse bore me in for the kill.

Metal and skin alike he does tear.
For the souls I have slain, have no care.


I only do what I can, when I slaughter the man.
My trade is no longer relying on land.

For fallen souls I shed too few tears.
War and flames are no longer my fears.
Aryndil said:
Archer's Griefs

Come conscription day last night,
to my village came the armoured knight.

"Huntsmen, obey this king's man's call
to bring about your foemen's fall!"


A patriot, a bowman more,
I was when I was sent to war.

"I will join your league of men,
oft did I empty wolven den!"


Leather jerkin, bow in hand,
I bravely did defend my land!

"An honour it is, this gritty chore
to fling my arrows, drain the gore!"


But one night swords rang in gloom
as we were routed, I saw doom!

"Riders come across our flank!
Into my stomach spearhead sank!"


My mighty bow was little help
as I was butchered like a whelp.

"This wound is fatal, O the pain!
That such an end will be my bane!"


Regret I did, this long campaign
to end our neighbour's feeble reign.

"Why did I obey that calling horn?
Why does life this archer scorn?"


In servitude I spent my days,
now cold and hard at last my face.

"My vision blurred and my thoughts veiled
It comes to an end, my purpose failed."


But my yew bow will yet live on
Drawn one day, by another son.

"This is in truth a mighty bow!"
He'll say as he to war will go.
 
A most deceptive weapon.


one day I saw a gal,
a wench to suck my lil' pal
a young lass so sweet,
I kneeled at her feet.

"dost thou come here often, wench?"
I said as we sat on a bench.
Her face blushed so red,
later we went to bed.

Alas, she told me to go,
my heart was filled with woe.
"Why, oh why must I leave?"
"You aim to stick a weapon in me."

I concealed my member and went
"That little harlot can get bent."
It must have been then
that I returned to my men.

"We'll ambush cowardly Swadians,
for I had little luck with maidens."
And we rode out,
and prowled about.

We found the dogs,
they were dining on hogs.
I then ordered "charge!"
And revealed my weapon so large.

I remember not the battle so glorious
But we did emerge victorious.
I recovered my shield
from the blood drenched battlefield

An army of men, dead before me.
how did this come to be?
their corpses, broke and torn.
blood on the tabards they had worn

They expected axe, bow or sword.
unaware, this now cold horde,
was that my skullsplitter
was my joy-spitter

a thousand warriors fell
to my gimmel.
it was my manmeat
with which they were beat.
 
Fingers clench
Muscles shake
Sweat runs along slick wood
At the thought of lives yet to take

My faithful bride
Formed in steel
E'er ready to come to hand
For consumation in blood and weal

Masterful swing
Powerful blow
The impact of metal to flesh
And the siren scream of mortal woe

No edge to keep
No nicks to grind
Gnurled flanged or pristine
The mace is elegently simple you'll find

Edit:
Hear it!
http://chapterhouse2.nhvt.net/momaw/themace.mp3 (260kbytes)
 
Here's mine ('tis freestyle, I can't rhyme):

The White Flag

We march into battle;
100 strong,
With Marnid and Borcha,
Arms in hand,
Right next to me.

I shout F1;
"Everyone, Hear me!"
I Then shout 1;
"Everyone,
Hold this Position!"

But what is this?
On the battlefield?
A small band
of river pirates?
Why don't they flee?

My men's instincts
kick in
My men start to charge,
"No!" I shout
1! 1! 1!

But it is
too late.
Poor Borcha,
Poor Marnid,
Have ran.

Off they go heads held high,
And soon I see
the deadly message
Marnid Knocked unconcious
By river Pirate

And soon there's more
Not unconciousness,
But death!
My 100 strong have
turned to 10 weak.

And now the pirates
come up to me and
cripple my poor war horse,
Poking and stabbing me
and now I am near death.

As my great saga
has told
Whenever you are
in battle
Follow my greatest words:

If you do not want
to be slain by peasants
Do the fighting yourself
Dont leave the AI
To stand on the hill with

The great white flag.


Phew... that's tired me out...
 
As atonement for forgetting them earlier:

Give me naught but hardened Mace


You can keep your blades so sleek, your polearms tall and thin,
Give me naught but hardened Mace, it’s all I need to win

Anyone can kill a man, but few can take him live,
It’s on the backs of men like me that slavery must thrive

We stride among the battlefield, striking where we may,
And when we land a mighty blow, upon the ground they’ll stay

I’ll never land a fatal blow, unless in last resort,
I’m not a mindless soldier, who’ll kill without a thought

So once again I say to thee, don’t bother with a blade,
A mace, as far as I’m concerned, is the finest weapon made
 
To be honest, I didn't see that poem before... I must have missed it. But deffinate extra points for the recital. Not bad at all.
 
Here's a poem I wrote a couple months back. It's not based on any particular weapons, but I'd still call it a war poem.

Meneldur and the Thousand


Clear and gaily tolled the bells
Of verdant Wurdwaith’s halls
When Meneldur rode forth from the dells
And Thenuldwaith’s lofty walls.

A host of a thousand rode at his side,
And burnished was their armor;
Their brilliant blades like silver shone,
And filled all with righteous ardor.

Their banners soared proud and high;
Meneldur’s crimson hawk they bore,
And the people thronged to see it fly,
And raised a great exultant roar.

“Meneldur has come at last!”
Was the joyful cry heard in the street,
And the people again to hope held fast
And every heart emboldened beat.

To the keep that proud column rode
As the streets rolled with its thunder.
To its head Wurdwaith’s king swift strode,
And beheld fair Meneldur in wonder.

And all the guard of Wurdwaith cheered
To see the thousand lance draw nigh,
And as their gleam on the horizon neared
It seemed two suns dawned the sky.

Into this host of flawless knights
The men of Wurdwaith fell.
Though battered and bloodied from flight,
They bore their tattered banners well.

And from the pinnacle of the keep
Did the valiant host outpour
With a cry so bold and deep
The mountains echoed with its roar.

Down through the city that great host poured
And all the people were in wonder,
And made way with cheers and hearts that soared,
And threw the ivory gates asunder.

Gallant Meneldur rode at the van,
His sword splitting the dawning sun,
And not among all the host was a man
Who thought to lay down his arms to run.

From the gates burst Wurdwaith’s guard,
And the plains trembled with their power
As man and horse rose upon the sward
Like the blooming of some bright flower.

And headlong into the foe clove
Meneldur’s host like a spear,
And before them like a tide of gold drove
Those dark ranks back in fear.

The valiant fight was fierce and long
And brutal was the fray,
But the guard and thousand at last held strong
And shone victorious at dawn’s first ray.

And Meneldur’s hawks still proudly soared,
And his thousand gleamed upon the plain.
But where was the man whom the city so adored?
Alas, that proud Meneldur was slain!



~Matt Dubois~
 
THE BATTLE

Mens of thousands march to war,
with bows, spears and fear in their heart,
hordes of enemy march from the hills,
killing all that lie in their path.

The enemy came they will kill us all,
so did they think but how was it solved?
Swords, bows banners so tall,
leaded by their king, the men chant TO WAR!

Long day it will be the battle has begun,
many men had already died at the war,
even the winds showed their wrath,
thunder raged and storms were born.

They fall, they fall the men shout proud,
only the kings still had fought,
last blow the king did strike at the other,
last words did he say before he had fallen.

A mortal has killed me, a mortal he shal be,
my men will avenge me that do I swear to thee,
a day after another, a year by year,
my kingdom will grow in power and your doom will be near.

The enemy has been held at bay for now,
but they will strike back,
this I know... this will be.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Well it's my first war poem and I hope you people like it. :smile:
 
O see the fleet-foot host of men, who march with faces drawn,
From farmstead and from fishers' cot, along the banks of Ban;
They come with vengeance in their eyes. Too late! Too late are they,
For young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you love them still the best
The fearless brave who fighting fall upon your hapless breast,
But never a one of all your dead more bravely fell in fray,
Than he who marches to his fate on the bridge of Toome today.

Up the narrow street he stepped, so smiling, proud and young.
About the hemp-rope on his neck, the golden ringlets clung;
There's ne'er a tear in his blue eyes, fearless and brave are they,
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

When last this narrow street he trod, his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched, in grim array, a earnest stalwart band.
To Antrim town! To Antrim town, he led them to the fray,
But young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

The grey coat and its sash of green were brave and stainless then,
A banner flashed beneath the sun over the marching men;
The coat hath many a rent this noon, the sash is torn away,
And Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

Oh, how his pike flashed in the sun! Then found a foeman's heart,
Through furious fight, and heavy odds he bore a true man's part
And many a red-coat bit the dust before his keen pike-play,
But Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

There's never a one of all your dead more bravely died in fray
Than he who marches to his fate in Toomebridge town today;
True to the last! True to the last, he treads the upwards way,
And young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.
 
So neck to neck and obstinate knee to knee
Wrestled those two; and peerless Heracles
Could not prevail nor catch at any vantage;
But those huge hands which small had strangled snakes
Let slip the writhing of Antaeas' wrists;
Those clubs of hands that wrenched the necks of bulls
Now fumbled round the slim Antaeas' limbs
Baffled. Then anger swelled in Heracles,
And terribly he grappled broader arms,
And yet more firmly fixed his grasping feet,
And up his back the muscles bulged and shone
Like climbing banks and domes of towering cloud.
Many who watched that wrestling say he laughed,-
But not so loud as on Eurystheus of old,
But that his pantings, seldom loosed, long pent,
Were like the sighs of lions at their meat.
Men say their fettered fury tightened hour by hour,
Until the veins rose tubrous on their brows
And froth flew thickly-shivered from both beards.
As pythons shudder, bridling-in their spite,
So trembled that Antaeas with held strength,
While Heracles, - the thews and cordage of his thighs
Straitened and strained beyond the utmost stretch
From quivering heel to haunch like sweating hawsers -
But only staggered backward. Then his throat
Growled, like a great beast when his meat is touched,
As if he smelt some guile behind Antaeas,
And knew the buttressed bulking of his shoulders
Bore not the mass to move it one thumb's length.
But what it was so helped the man none guessed,
Save Hylas, whom the fawns had once made wise
How earth herself empowered him by her touch,
Gave him the grip and stringency of winter,
And all the ardour of the invincible spring;
How all the blood of June glutted his heart;
And the wild glow of huge autumnal storms
Stirred on his face, and flickered from his eyes;
How too, Poseidon blessed him fatherly
With wafts of vigour from the keen sea waves,
And with the subtle coil of currents -
Strange underflows, that maddened Heracles.
And towards the night they sundered, neither thrown.
Whereat came Hylas running to his friend
With fans, and sponges in a laving-bowl,
And brimmed his lord the beakerful he loved,
Which Heracles took roughly, even from him.
Then spake that other from the place he stood:
'O Heracles, I know thy fights and labours,
What man thou wert, and what thou art become,
The lord of strength, queller of perilous monsters,
Hero of heroes, worthy immortal worship,
But me thou canst not quell. For I, I come
Of Earth, and to my father Poseidon,
Whose strength ye know, and whose displeasure ye know.
Therefore be wise, and try me not again,
But say thou findst me peer, and more than peer.'
But Heracles, of utter weariness,
Was loath to answer, either yea or nay.
And a cruel murmur rankled through the crowd.
Now he whose knees propped up the head of him,
Over his lord's ear swiftly whispered thus:
'If thou could'st lift the man in air - enough.
His feet suck secret virtue of the earth.
Lift him, and buckle him to thy breast, and win.'
Up sprang the son of Perseus deeply laughing
And ere the crimson of his last long clutch
Had faded from that insolent's throat, again
They closed. Then he, the Argonaut,
Remembering how he tore the oaks in Argos,
Bound both his arms about the other's loins
And with a sudden tugging, easily
Rooted him up; and crushed his inmost bones.
Forth to the town he strode, and through the streets,
Bearing the body light as leopard-skins,
And glorious ran the shouting as he strode -
Some say his footfalls made an earthquake there
So that he dropped Antaeas: some say not:
But that he cast him down by Gea's altar
And Gea sent that earthquake for her son,
To rouse him out of death. And lo! he rose,
Alive, and came to Heracles
Who feasted with the people and their King.
And fain would all make place for him
But he would not consent. And Heracles,
Knowing the hate of Hylas for his deeds,
Feasted and slept; and so forgot the man,
And early on the morrow passed with Hylas
Down to the Argo, for the wind was fair.

Yeaha! This is a masterpiece btw so if you dont understand the true meaning no problem.
 
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