Warrior Poems

[Arthes]

The Everlasting Gun

So here you go you're on your own
The flower blooms so freely
For fortune, musket, fyfe and drum
Your faking days won't leave you
'Cause young man now you nurse the gun
You're nervous in the morning
'Neath shattered skies your body lies
On the dark side of reason

The blood is lusting in your heart
Your flesh red hot and lonely
And vengeance gulps the bitter cup
That once held wine so sweetly
But young man legends still unfold
For regiment for glory
You search for gold like you've been told
And the light of day won't leave you

For fickle kings you click the heel
Where a bleak moon leans so weary
Forgotten names on faceless graves
Your father's home awaits you
Oh, the warrior is not the fool
The refugee of freedom
But the outlawed man who holds no gun
On the dark side of reason

But run
You'll never turn and run
The everlasting gun
Your day will surely come
You'll never run

song by Runrig

[flavia]

This short warrior's poem was written by a man called ARCHILOCHOS of Paros (early 7th cent B.C. A mercenary soldier who fought with Parians to establish the colony of Thasos He died in battle.

Soul, Soul Torn by perplexity. On your feet now. Throw forward your chest to the enemy. Keep close in the attack, move back not an inch but never crow in victory nor mope hand-dog in loss. Overdo neither sorrow nor joy. A measured motion governs man.

[Sangue]

Eek, this is too strong for me! *takes refuge in ancient times again*

L'homme, l'homme, l'homme armé
L'homme armé, l'homme armé doibt on doubter, doibt on doubter
On a fait partout crier,
que chacun se viegne armer
d'un haubregon de fer
L'homme, l'homme, l'homme armé
L'homme armé, l'homme armé doibt on doubter

Armèd, armèd, armèd men
Armèd men, armèd men should be doubted, fear armèd men
Ev'rywhere is heard this song:
Good men, wear the whole day long
a shirt of iron strong!
Armèd, armèd, armèd men
Armèd men, armèd men should be doubted

[hoplite14gr]

Archilochos was the "cursed" poet of antiquity. Nice one Cristy.

Ulfjarl went hunting aurochs, high up in the highlands.
Enemies and chieftains with their hosts surprised him.
Mighty Ulfjarl stood alone fighting bitter foeman,
helmets, shields and burnies splindered all arround him!
Bravely there he died, the Valkyries now attend him.
It is for us his living kin to go out and avenge him!
Stone cold our eyes will be when we refuse the weregild
cowards pay for murder!!
The ruins of their long houses and maggot ridden corpses,
will make the world remember...
the vengeance of his housecarls who loved him as a brother!

Source unknown.....

[flavia]

Archilochos was the "cursed" poet of antiquity. Nice one Cristy.

Ulfjarl went hunting aurochs, high up in the highlands.
Enemies and chieftains with their hosts surprised him.
Mighty Ulfjarl stood alone fighting bitter foeman,
helmets, shields and burnies splindered all arround him!
Bravely there he died, the Valkyries now attend him.
It is for us his living kin to go out and avenge him!
Stone cold our eyes will be when we refuse the weregild
cowards pay for murder!!
The ruins of their long houses and maggot ridden corpses,
will make the world remember...
the vengeance of his housecarls who loved him as a brother!

Source unknown.....

What do you mean by "cursed" Flavia

[Robert Vermaat]

Marwnad Cynddylan: (‘Death-song of Cynddylan’):
[url:16itbrr1]http://www.kmatthews.org.uk/history/marwna...ylan/index.html[/url]
There's much more of this stuff:

Dyhedd deon diechir by[g]eledd
Rhiau, a Rhirid, a Rhiossedd,
a Rhygyfarch lary lyw eirassedd.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derwin fedd,
o leas Cynddylan yn ei fawredd.

Unyielding battle of menacing lords,
Rhiau and Rhirid and Rhiosedd
and Rhigyfarch, the generous chieftain, the chariot driver.
I shall lament until I lie in my oaken coffin
for the slaying of Cynddylan in his grandeur.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! A feddyliais
myned y Fenai, cyn ni’m bai fais.
Carafi a’m enneirch o dir Cemais,
gwerling Dogfeiling, Cadelling trais.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derw llednais,
o leas Cynddylan, colled annofais.

Grandeur in battle! Did I think
of going to Menai, though there was no ford for me?
I love those of the land of Cemais who give me welcome,
the king of Dogfeiling, oppressor of the Cadelling.
I shall lament until I would be in my oaken silence
for the slaying of Cynddylan, grievous loss.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! I feddyliaw
myned i Fenai, cyn ni’m bai naw!
Carafi a’m enneirch o Aberffraw,
gwerling Dogfeiling, Cadelling ffaw.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derwin taw,
o leas Cynddylan, a’i luyddaw.

Grandeur in battle! To think
of going to Menai, though I cannot swim!
I love those who welcome me to Aberffraw,
the king of Dogfeiling, terror to the Cadelling.
I shall lament until I would be in my oaken silence
for the slaying of Cynddylan and his mustering of hosts.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Gwin waredawg,
wyf colledig wen, hen hiraethawg.
Collais pan amwyth alaf Pennawg
Gwr dewr diachar diarbedawg.
Cyrchai drais tra Thren, tir trahawg,
ef cwynif oni fwyf yn ddaear fodawg,
o leas Cynddylan, clod Caradawg.

Grandeur in battle! Civilised wine!
I beseech sorrowfully, old and filled with hiraeth.
When he raided the cattle of Pennawg, I lost
a brave, unyielding, unforgiving hero.
He used to make campaigns beyond Tern, the proud land.
I shall lament until I would be in the unmoving earth
for the slaying of Cynddylan, of the fame of Caradog.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor fu da[f]fawd
a gafas Cynddylan, cynran cyffrawd;
saith gant rhiallu’n ei <yspeidawd>,
pan fynnwys mab pyd, mor fu barawd!
<Hy> [d]darfu yn neithiawr, ni bu priawd.
Gan Dduw py amgen plwyf, py du dae<a>rawd?
Ef cwynif oni fwyf [y]n<i> erw<rth> <w>awd,
o leas Cynddylan, clod addwyndawd.

Grandeur in battle! So good was the destiny
that Cynddylan, the battle leader, got
seven hundred chosen soldiers in his retinue,
When the son of Pyd requested, he was so ready!
He did not go to the wedding feast; he was not married.
O God! What different company, what black burial?
I shall lament until I would be with the throng under the earth
for the slaying of Cynddylan, of majestic fame.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor wyf gnotaf,
pob pysg a milyn yd fydd tecaf,
i drais a gollais, <gwir> achassaf,
Rhiau, a Rhirid, a Rhiadaf,
a Rhygyfarch lary [ior] pob eithaf.
Dyrrynt eu [p]reiddau a <t>oleu Taf,
caith cwynynt; br<iw>ynt, grydynt alaf.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn erw penylaf
o leas Cynddylan, clod pob eithaf.

Grandeur in battle! I am so very well accustomed
to all the finest fishes and beasts,
through violence I have lost the finest warriors,
Rhiau and Rhirid and Rhiosedd
and Rhigyfarch, generous [ruler] of every borderland.
They used to drive back the spoils from the dales of Taff.
Captives lamented; lame, cattle bellowed.
I shall lament until I would be in the most constricted plot
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famed at the border.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! A weli di hyn?
Yd lysg fy nghalon fal etewyn.
Hoffais i <mewredd> eu gwyr a’u gwragedd
[fy ngomedd] ni ellynt <fy nwyn>.
Brodyr a’m bwyad. [Oedd] gwell ban fythyn,
canawon Arthur fras, dinas dengyn,
[y] rhag Caer Lwytgoed nis digonsyn.
[Oedd] crau y dan frain, a chrai gychwyn.
Briwynt calch ar drwyn, feibion Cyndrwynyn.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn nhir gwelyddyn,
o leas Cynddylan, clodlawn unbyn.

Grandeur in battle! Do you see this?
My heart burns like a firebrand.
I enjoyed the wealth of their men
and women. They could not repay me enough.
I used to have brothers. It was better when they were
the young whelps of great Arthur, the mighty fortress.
Before Lichfield they fought,
There was gore under ravens and keen attack.
Limed shields broke before the sons of the Cyndrwynyn.
I shall lament until I would be in the land of my resting place
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famed among chieftains.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mawr ysgafael
y rhag Caer Lwytgoed, neus dug Moriael.
Pymtheccant muhyn, a phum gwriael;
pedwar ugein meirch, a seirch cy[c]ha<w>ael.
Pen esgob hunob ym mhedeirael,
nis noddes myneich llyfr afael.
A gwyddws yn eu creulan o gynran claer
nid engis or ffosawd brawd ar y chwaer.
Diengynt a’u herchyll trewyll yn taer.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn erw trf<w>ael,
o leas Cynddylan, clodrydd pob hael.

Grandeur in battle! Extensive spoils
Morial bore off from in front of Lichfield.
Fifteen hundred cattle from the front of battle;
four twenties of stallions and equal harness.
The chief bishop wretched in his four-cornered house (?),
the book-keeping monks did not protect.
Those who fell in the blood before the splendid warrior
no brother escaped from the entrenchment to his sister.
They escaped from the uproar with grievous wounds.
I shall lament until I would be in my lowly grave plot
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famous to every generous man.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor oedd e<rr>un
gan fy mryd, pan athreiddwn Pwll ac Alun!
Ir[fr]w[y]n<n> y dan fy nrhaed hyd bryd cyntun;
pl<w>[d]de y danaf hyd ymhen fy nghlun.
A chyn ethwyf i yno i’m bro fy hun,
nid oes un car; neud adar i’w warafun.
A chyn ni’m dyccei i Dduw i’r digfryn
ni ddigones neb o bechawd cyha<w>al <i mi> hun.

Grandeur in battle! So pleasant it was
in my soul when I visited Pwll and Alun!
Fresh rushes under foot until bedtime;
feather pillows under me, as far down as my knees.
And though I have gone there, to my own country,
there is not one kinsman left: birds have claimed them.
And though I am not led to God at the Judgment Mount,
None has sinned as I have.

[john m roberts]

There is a minor school of warrior poetry that migh be termed: "I'm alive to write this poem because I ran like hell." For instance, that very non-Spartan poet who tossed away his shield and took to his heels. It ends, (loosely translated)
Screw that shield!
I can always buy another just as good!

[Nathan Ross]

The non-Spartiate poet being the very same Archilochus of Paros, of course! He was a mercenary in non-poetic life (name means something like 'company leader' I believe) - the poem in question reputedly caused him to be banned in Sparta for expression anti-heroic sentiments! Here it is, in Stuart Silverman's cool if free translation:

I don't give a damn if some Thracian ape strut
Proud of that first-rate shield the bushes got.
Leaving it was hell, but in a tricky spot
I kept my hide intact. Good shields can be bought.

[hoplite14gr]

In answer to flavias question:

Archilochos was ilegitimate son, minor thief, initially overconfident mercenary. Borrowed things without returning and iresponsible.
He was like the 19th century cursed poets like Byron, Dawson and pother who died from a combination of alcahol syfilis and tubrculosis.
Archilochos just paved the way 2000 years before.

He was Naxian in origin not Spartan.
Pausanias mentions about gis end and his grave at Beotika
Kind regards

[Caballo]

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries



These, in the day when heaven was falling,

The hour when earth's foundations fled,

Followed their mercenary calling,

And took their wages, and are dead.



Their shoulders held the sky suspended;

They stood, and earth's foundations stay;

What God abandoned, these defended,

And saved the sum of things for pay.



A.E. Housman

[hoplite14gr]

Nice one Paul,
Reminds me of Kipplig´s "legion of the damned".
And since we talked about the legions.....this is appropriate.

http://www.kraffe.org/brevin/legion/boudinlegion.htm

Enjoy!

[Arthes]

Ah, Cynddylan of the land of Pengwern....another of my Heroes....!
I love the 'country of Ffreuer'

Dinlleu Vrecon (‘The city of Wroxeter’)

I have gazed from Wroxeter,
the country of Ffreuer.
There is sorrow for the slaughter of my valiant brothers.
neur sylleis [olygon] o dinlleu ureconn,
ffreuer werydre.
hiraeth am damorth vrodyrde.
A horseman from Chester under him
was not …
marchawc o gaer adanaw
nyt oed hwyr
a gwynnyon gwr o sanneir....
regards
Arthes

Marwnad Cynddylan: (‘Death-song of Cynddylan’):
[url:2qweybnl]http://www.kmatthews.org.uk/history/marwna...ylan/index.html[/url]
There's much more of this stuff:

Dyhedd deon diechir by[g]eledd
Rhiau, a Rhirid, a Rhiossedd,
a Rhygyfarch lary lyw eirassedd.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derwin fedd,
o leas Cynddylan yn ei fawredd.

Unyielding battle of menacing lords,
Rhiau and Rhirid and Rhiosedd
and Rhigyfarch, the generous chieftain, the chariot driver.
I shall lament until I lie in my oaken coffin
for the slaying of Cynddylan in his grandeur.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! A feddyliais
myned y Fenai, cyn ni’m bai fais.
Carafi a’m enneirch o dir Cemais,
gwerling Dogfeiling, Cadelling trais.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derw llednais,
o leas Cynddylan, colled annofais.

Grandeur in battle! Did I think
of going to Menai, though there was no ford for me?
I love those of the land of Cemais who give me welcome,
the king of Dogfeiling, oppressor of the Cadelling.
I shall lament until I would be in my oaken silence
for the slaying of Cynddylan, grievous loss.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! I feddyliaw
myned i Fenai, cyn ni’m bai naw!
Carafi a’m enneirch o Aberffraw,
gwerling Dogfeiling, Cadelling ffaw.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf i’m derwin taw,
o leas Cynddylan, a’i luyddaw.

Grandeur in battle! To think
of going to Menai, though I cannot swim!
I love those who welcome me to Aberffraw,
the king of Dogfeiling, terror to the Cadelling.
I shall lament until I would be in my oaken silence
for the slaying of Cynddylan and his mustering of hosts.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Gwin waredawg,
wyf colledig wen, hen hiraethawg.
Collais pan amwyth alaf Pennawg
Gwr dewr diachar diarbedawg.
Cyrchai drais tra Thren, tir trahawg,
ef cwynif oni fwyf yn ddaear fodawg,
o leas Cynddylan, clod Caradawg.

Grandeur in battle! Civilised wine!
I beseech sorrowfully, old and filled with hiraeth.
When he raided the cattle of Pennawg, I lost
a brave, unyielding, unforgiving hero.
He used to make campaigns beyond Tern, the proud land.
I shall lament until I would be in the unmoving earth
for the slaying of Cynddylan, of the fame of Caradog.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor fu da[f]fawd
a gafas Cynddylan, cynran cyffrawd;
saith gant rhiallu’n ei <yspeidawd>,
pan fynnwys mab pyd, mor fu barawd!
<Hy> [d]darfu yn neithiawr, ni bu priawd.
Gan Dduw py amgen plwyf, py du dae<a>rawd?
Ef cwynif oni fwyf [y]n<i> erw<rth> <w>awd,
o leas Cynddylan, clod addwyndawd.

Grandeur in battle! So good was the destiny
that Cynddylan, the battle leader, got
seven hundred chosen soldiers in his retinue,
When the son of Pyd requested, he was so ready!
He did not go to the wedding feast; he was not married.
O God! What different company, what black burial?
I shall lament until I would be with the throng under the earth
for the slaying of Cynddylan, of majestic fame.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor wyf gnotaf,
pob pysg a milyn yd fydd tecaf,
i drais a gollais, <gwir> achassaf,
Rhiau, a Rhirid, a Rhiadaf,
a Rhygyfarch lary [ior] pob eithaf.
Dyrrynt eu [p]reiddau a <t>oleu Taf,
caith cwynynt; br<iw>ynt, grydynt alaf.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn erw penylaf
o leas Cynddylan, clod pob eithaf.

Grandeur in battle! I am so very well accustomed
to all the finest fishes and beasts,
through violence I have lost the finest warriors,
Rhiau and Rhirid and Rhiosedd
and Rhigyfarch, generous [ruler] of every borderland.
They used to drive back the spoils from the dales of Taff.
Captives lamented; lame, cattle bellowed.
I shall lament until I would be in the most constricted plot
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famed at the border.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! A weli di hyn?
Yd lysg fy nghalon fal etewyn.
Hoffais i <mewredd> eu gwyr a’u gwragedd
[fy ngomedd] ni ellynt <fy nwyn>.
Brodyr a’m bwyad. [Oedd] gwell ban fythyn,
canawon Arthur fras, dinas dengyn,
[y] rhag Caer Lwytgoed nis digonsyn.
[Oedd] crau y dan frain, a chrai gychwyn.
Briwynt calch ar drwyn, feibion Cyndrwynyn.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn nhir gwelyddyn,
o leas Cynddylan, clodlawn unbyn.

Grandeur in battle! Do you see this?
My heart burns like a firebrand.
I enjoyed the wealth of their men
and women. They could not repay me enough.
I used to have brothers. It was better when they were
the young whelps of great Arthur, the mighty fortress.
Before Lichfield they fought,
There was gore under ravens and keen attack.
Limed shields broke before the sons of the Cyndrwynyn.
I shall lament until I would be in the land of my resting place
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famed among chieftains.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mawr ysgafael
y rhag Caer Lwytgoed, neus dug Moriael.
Pymtheccant muhyn, a phum gwriael;
pedwar ugein meirch, a seirch cy[c]ha<w>ael.
Pen esgob hunob ym mhedeirael,
nis noddes myneich llyfr afael.
A gwyddws yn eu creulan o gynran claer
nid engis or ffosawd brawd ar y chwaer.
Diengynt a’u herchyll trewyll yn taer.
Ef cwynif oni fwyf yn erw trf<w>ael,
o leas Cynddylan, clodrydd pob hael.

Grandeur in battle! Extensive spoils
Morial bore off from in front of Lichfield.
Fifteen hundred cattle from the front of battle;
four twenties of stallions and equal harness.
The chief bishop wretched in his four-cornered house (?),
the book-keeping monks did not protect.
Those who fell in the blood before the splendid warrior
no brother escaped from the entrenchment to his sister.
They escaped from the uproar with grievous wounds.
I shall lament until I would be in my lowly grave plot
for the slaying of Cynddylan, famous to every generous man.

---
Mawredd gyminedd! Mor oedd e<rr>un
gan fy mryd, pan athreiddwn Pwll ac Alun!
Ir[fr]w[y]n<n> y dan fy nrhaed hyd bryd cyntun;
pl<w>[d]de y danaf hyd ymhen fy nghlun.
A chyn ethwyf i yno i’m bro fy hun,
nid oes un car; neud adar i’w warafun.
A chyn ni’m dyccei i Dduw i’r digfryn
ni ddigones neb o bechawd cyha<w>al <i mi> hun.

Grandeur in battle! So pleasant it was
in my soul when I visited Pwll and Alun!
Fresh rushes under foot until bedtime;
feather pillows under me, as far down as my knees.
And though I have gone there, to my own country,
there is not one kinsman left: birds have claimed them.
And though I am not led to God at the Judgment Mount,
None has sinned as I have.

[flavia]

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries



These, in the day when heaven was falling,

The hour when earth's foundations fled,

Followed their mercenary calling,

And took their wages, and are dead.



Their shoulders held the sky suspended;

They stood, and earth's foundations stay;

What God abandoned, these defended,

And saved the sum of things for pay.



A.E. Housman

There seems to have been a place for mercenaries in all periods of history. I like the last verse in particular. Flavia

[hoplite14gr]

[
There seems to have been a place for mercenaries in all periods of history. I like the last verse in particular. Flavia

Madam, did you found the answer on your question about Archilochos?

Kind regards

[Robert Vermaat]

Dulce Et Decorum Est- Wilfred Owen, the best known poem about WW1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.


Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.


If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.