The Fiachsmál
Fiachsmál (pronounced 'Fee-ach Small,' and that's part of the joke) means, in old Icelandic, 'The Song of Sir Fiach.'
This poem was written to celebrate Sir Fiach CuCool Ulfredsson, a knight of An Tir and a very kind man. With a good sense of humor.
A very good sense of humor. A most excellent sense of humor that is outshined only by his courtesy to impudent ladies.
The Barony of Madrone's bardic competition was fast approaching, and few bards had stepped forward to compete.
Lord Guillaume de Garrigues therefore issued a challenge, by name, to all those in the barony with musical talent -
Sir Fiach among them! Unfortunately, Sir Fiach was forced to refuse the challenge, as he had already agreed
to attend a tourney in the nearby lands of the Barony of Dragon's Laire.
As a stripling bard who admired Sir Fiach, I wept - mourned! - cried out in woe and sorrow! -
that he would not accept the challenge. While we bards grieved our loss, I conjured up images of the fine day
he was having on the battlefield of Dragon's Laire.
It should be mentioned that I have a very active imagination.
In Sir Fiach's honor, to increase his repute, and to tell the legend of the day as I envisioned it,
I penned a praise-poem for him in the style of the Poetic Edda, the mythical tales of brave Norse heroes.
It is a saga of heroism, valor, and the punishments of the gods on those who defy them (and who deny bards good company).
This epic may remind some very perceptive readers of a certain childhood story.
The Fiachsmál (The Song of Sir Fiach)
I.
Not many the joys that the gods grant to mortals
Be rogue or be rabbit, be knave or be knight,
But Fiach the tale-bard with tail of bat-cotton
Shall with a swift sword now spring to the fight.
In the forest he finds them, like field-mice they're fleeing
While the skaalds and the scops sing the rhythm of blows.
And on their heads bopping the beat of the battle
By Odin's eye, brings them to weyrgild and woe.
The sword-maidens gather the death-pale fallen
See tale-bard's triumph, hear mice as they mourn
When Loki in Asgard learns lore of the battle
On fae-feet descending, like an álfar he falls.
The tale-bard he threatens in thunderous tone
If you murder more mice, you will reap your ruin!
Two more chances I'll give you, your courage to curb.
Or in grief, like old Grendel, be turned to a goon!
II.
Not many the fair days the gods grant to summer
Be ruffian or rabbit, be king or be knight,
But Fiach the tale-bard with tail of bat-cotton
Again with a swift sword now springs to the fight.
In the forest he finds them, like field-mice they're fleeing
While the skaalds and the scops sing the rhythm of blows.
And on their heads bopping the beat of the battle
By Tyr's hand, he'll bring them to weyrgild and woe.
The sword-maidens gather the death-pale fallen
See tale-bard's triumph, hear mice as they mourn
When Loki in Asgard learns lore of the battle
On fae-feet descending, like an álfar he falls.
The tale-bard he threatens in thunderous tone
If you murder more mice, you will reap your ruin!
One more chance I'll give you, your conflict to quiet.
Or in grief, like old Grendel, be turned to a goon!
III.
Not many the comforts that gods grant to warriors
Be rascal or rabbit, be knut or be knight,
But Fiach the tale-bard with tail of bat-cotton
Again with a swift sword now springs to the fight.
In the forest he finds them, like field-mice they're fleeing
While the skaalds and the scops sing the rhythm of blows.
And on their heads bopping the beat of the battle
By Sif's hair, he'll bring them to weyrgild and woe.
The sword-maidens gather the death-pale fallen
See tale-bard's triumph, hear mice as they mourn
When Loki in Asgard learns lore of the battle
On fae-feet descending, like an álfar he falls.
Loki threatens the swordsman in thunderous tone
You've murdered more mice, now you'll reap your ruin!
No more chances you'll get - you can't calm your killing!
So in grief, like old Grendel, be turned to a goon!
IV.
Not many, the fears of the bold hero-hearted...
But before gods and bards, let your patience grow long
So hear you this moral, and heed you its warning
And tell it, when challenged to tale and to song
Sir Fiach's last lesson, learned much to his sorrow
What we hare-ald today... will tomorrow be goon.
- Wynn Constantine the Waywarde, October 7, 2009