Reenactment Songs

Let’s Go Pike a Knight
(To the tune of  Let’s Go Fly a Kite)

Well in tourneys I constantly fall
To the knights, count, and dukes one and all,
But in melees and wars I have dropped them in scores
‘Cause in battles I fight with a nine-foot-long pike!

Oh oh oh, let’s go pike a knight.
Why die in some fair fight?
Let’s go pike a knight, and watch him crumble.
Wait ’til he’s occupied, then stab him in his side.
Oh, let’s go pike a knight.

Oh, my shieldmen are lovely to see,
Those big round shields protecting me.
While the shieldmen all fall, I hide safe ‘hind the wall.
Far away on the right with my nine-foot-long pike.

Oh oh oh, let’s go pike a knight.
Why die in some fair fight?
Let’s go pike a knight, and watch him crumble.
He won’t louse up your day, if you’re nine feet away.
Oh, let’s go pike a knight.

Bruise Marks
Words by Sigurd Leothsanga)
(To the tune of Green Sleeves)

Alas my friend you do me wrong
To beat my skull so mercilessly
For I have fought one tenth as long
And you have a better helm than me

Chorus
Bruise marks were all my joy
Bruise marks were my delight
Bruise marks received and gave
All for my lady’s company

I can not see your shiny sword
It flies to fast for me to see
I made my shield of thin ply board
‘Twas light but broke so faithlessly

Chorus

You duck and turn avoid my blows
My sword you dodge so easily
Perhaps because my arms it slows
I cannot score a mark on thee

Woad Ode: The National Anthem of the Ancient Britons
(To the tune of Men of Harlech)

What’s the use of wearing braces ?
Vests and pants and boots with laces ?
Spats and hats you buy in places
Down the Brompton Road ?
What’s the use of shirts of cotton ?
Studs that always get forgotten ?
These affairs are simply rotten,
Better far is woad.
Woad’s the stuff to show men.
Woad to scare your foemen.
Boil it to a brilliant hue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen.
Ancient Briton ne’er did hit on
Anything as good as woad to fit on
Neck or knees or where you sit on.
Tailors you be blowed !!

Romans came across the channel
All dressed up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man’ll
Dress us more than these.
Saxons you can waste your stitches
Building beds for bugs in britches
We have woad to clothe us which is
Not a nest for fleas
Romans keep your armours.
Saxons your pyjamas.
Hairy coats were made for goats,
Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas
Tramp up Snowdon with your woad on,
Never mind if you get rained or blowed on
Never want a button sewed on.
Go it Ancient B’s !!

Hung Over Barbarian
Words By Robert Asprin
To the tune of Teddy-bears’ Picnic

If you go out on the streets today, you better not go alone!
Do not go out on the streets today, it’s safer to stay at home!
The least excuse that ever there was today will mean a challenge because
From drink last night old Fafhrd is quite… hungover!

Hungover Barbarian! You’d best beware of him,
he’s certainly not himself today!
If you see him better run
’cause you’ll get killed if you get in his way!
he is in a cloud of gloom, so give him lots of room
and better not come too near!
you gentle folk who value your lives better stay at home today
’cause Fafhrd’s hung over out to here!

So…

If you go out on the streets today, you better go with a guard!
There’s lots of pleasanter ways to die than be crushed by a ton of lard
If you pretend my mountainous friend is not a threat, you’ll come to your end
For Fafhrd’s quite prepared for a fight…
He’d like to pound you into the ground…
You’d best beware! You’d better take care!
His head and brain in terrible pain…
from drink last night old Fafhrd is quite… hung over!

Plunder’s Theme 
(To the tune of Supercalifragilistic…etc.)

Pillage, rape and loot and burn, but all in moderation
If you do the things we say, then you’ll soon rule the nation!
Kill your foes and enemies, and then kill their relations!
Pillage, rape and loot and burn, but all in moderation!

O-L-A-F!
(To the tune of L-O-L-A)

Met him on the shore at Lindesfarne
He burn down the monastery just to keep himself warm
That Olaf!
O-L-A-F, Olaf!

Caught him with a gerbil in a satin dress
Doing things that I won’t confess,
That Olaf!
O-L-A-F, Olaf!

Olaf spent the night with the Seneshale,
Woke up in the morning looking “slightly mauled!”
That Olaf!
O-L-A-F, Olaf!

I’ll See Your Six! I’ll See Your Six!
Words by Ioseph of Locksley
(To the tune of The Sleeping Scotsman)

A lovely lady went one night to a revel in the East
With dancing and with singing, with wine and Roasted Beast
When the revel came unto an end, she started out for home
Wrapped well in her woolen cloak, and walking all alone.

Chorus 
The things you will run into, the people that you meet
Walking all alone upon a New York City street!

Now, New York City’s not a place for walking in the dark
Not in the streets and alleys and especially not the Park
But off she went most happily, without a single care
Wrapped up in her woolen cloak, all in the midnight air.

A street-tough jumped in front of her, with three friends in the night
And pulled a six-inch switchblade, that glittered in the light
He waved it underneath her nose, and said with fiendish glee:
“Give me all your money, girl, this is a robbery!”

She gazed upon the switchblade, and smiled a happy smile
Said “Boy, you ain’t got any brains, and lack a sense of style!
You’re standing where I want to walk, please move out of my way!”
The tough said “Girl, I’ll cut you, and rob you anyway!”

All wrapped up in her woolen cloak, her kit was quite unseen
Her hands were hidden out of sight, and so was chain-mail’s gleam…
She said “Now, go rob someone else, my money stays with me!”
He said, “I’ll take your money with my six-inch snickersnee!”

The lady’s smile got bigger, the robber took a swing
The chain-mail took the blow; the lady didn’t feel a thing!
She pulled her shiny broadsword, the robber’s soul to shrive,
And grinned and said, “I’ll see your six, and raise you thirty-five!”

The bandit gazed upon the sword, and then upon his knife
He turned and ran, with his three friends, a-running for his life!
Don’t think a lady’s easy, don’t think she’s helpless prey,
For she may be a fighter and then dearly you will pay!

A Grazing Mace
(To the tune of Amazing Grace)

A grazing mace, how sweet the sound,
that felled my foe for me
I bashed his head, he struck the ground,
and thus came victory

My mace has taught my foes to fear,
that mace my fear relieved
How precious did my mace appear,
when I my mace received

Through many tourneys wars and fairs,
I have already come
My mace has brought me safe thus far,
my mace will bring me home

A grazing mace, how sweet the sound
that flattened a wretch like thee!
whose head is flat, that once was round;
done in by my mace….and me!

A grazing mace, how sweet the sound
that smites a foe like thee
You’re left there lying on the ground,
you’ve left the field to me!

I’m a Viking
Words by Elfride the Landless
(To the tune of Oh, Susannah!)

Oh, I come from Scandinavia
With my helm upon my head,
And I won’t be going home again
‘Til all of you are dead.

Chorus
I’m a Viking,
For that’s the thing to be;
There’s no greater joy than fighting
For a berserker like me.

Oh, we had a raid the other night
When everything was still.
We waited until moonrise and
Came shrieking down the hill.
The blood was pouring down the streets,
The women ran and screamed;
It was better fun than anyone
Could possibly have dreamed.

Chorus

The loot we loaded on the ships
Was too great to be told.
The slaves we towed behind on rafts;
For ballast we had gold.
We took home herds of cows and pigs,
We took home chests of jewels;
Why should we work when we can loot
From futile, puny fools?

Chorus

Oh, we’re hairy-chested fighters
And we have no time for games.
What we don’t take back home with us
We’ll leave behind in flames.
And if you see a Viking ship
There’s nothing you can do
Just kiss your wife and cross yourself
And bid the world adieu.

Chorus

The Barbarian’s Love
Words by Tweedledee
(To the tune of Addicted to Love By Robert Palmer)

The spears are set;
You take no heed.
You’re charging at
Your fastest speed.
Your heart beats –
Your teeth grind –
Another blow
“The field is mine,”
A one track mind.
A wedge you lead.
A bigger halberd
Is all you need.
An enemy
You know not who;
Your mind berserks
Knows what to do.

Oh you like to think that you’re repelled by the stuff
Oh yeah
Closer to the truth is that you can’t get enough
You know you’re going to have to face it you’re addicted to blood
You might as well face it you’re addicted to blood

The Celt Came Back
(To the tune of The Cat Came Back)

Now, one old King had troubles of his own
Had a thick-skinned bard that wouldn’t leave home
He tried and he tried to send that bard away
He sold him to a Dane going far, far away……

Chorus 
But the Celt came back, the very next day!
They thought he was a goner, but the Celt came back
He just wouldn’t stay away!

The local Baron said that he would shoot that Celt on sight
So he loaded up his cannon with powder to the sight
He waited and he waited for that bard to come around
Itty-bitty pieces of the castle’s all they found….

He gave him to a Visigoth going out East
Saying “Sell him to the Mongols; feed him to a Beast!”
They got up to the Channel, and they thought they’d get across
Tomorrow they’ll write off the ‘Goth as bein’ a total loss…

He gave him to a serf with a ten-shilling note
Take him out on the lake, take him out on a boat!
They tied a rock around his neck, it must have weighed ten stone
And now they drag the shoreline, ’cause the boat came back..alone..

They sent him to the Borgia’s to have a little feast
Kill him off with poisoned wine, use cyanide at least!
He drank several barrels of the poisoned wine that day
And now all the Borgias have all…passed away…

He gave him to a knight, to use him for a pell
Saying “Beat him smartly, I wanna hear him yell!”
The knight armoured up, and sharpened up his sword
No one’s ever heard again of that knightly Lord….

The Greek Fire fell the other day
Lightning from Heaven in the very same way!
Egypt’s gone, Greece is gone, Sumeria’s gone, Rome is gone…
They’ve all passed away
The whole Ancient World crumbled into dust that day

But the Celts came back the very next day
Thought that they were goners, but the Celts came back
They just couldn’t stay away!

Odin Loves The Little Vikings
(to the tune of Jesus Loves the Little Children)

Odin loves the little Vikings
All the Vikings of the world
Whether drunk on ale or mead
In a boat or on a steed
Odin loves the little Vikings of the world.

Odin loves the little Vikings
All the Vikings of the world
If you’re drunk and thrown in jail
Odin – and your axe! – are bail
Odin loves the little Vikings of the world.

Odin loves the little Vikings
All the Vikings of the world
Offer up an ox or two
And he’ll be in debt to you.
Odin loves the little Vikings of the world.

The Lindesfarne Chant (Viking Day-O)
Words by Thorfinn Halfblind
(To the tune of Banana Boat Song)

A recent archeological dig has unearthed one of the earliest extant Gregorian chants. It was found in the cracks of a wine cask in the old storm cellar of the monestary at Lindisfarne, and was written (we surmise) sometime around AD 800.  Oddly enough, this chant was written in the vernacular of the time, rather than Latin. Rather than leave you foundering with an obscure dialect of Northumbrian, we’ve taken the liberty of translating it into modern English.

Day-o! De-aye-o!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Dey have no respect for de holy relics!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home! 

Dey pawn dem off at Hedeby and Birka!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Dey chase de sheep and dey burn de village!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Dey drink all de wine and den dey pillage!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Dey dragged off the nuns for sale in chains!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Dey melt down the mitres for pocket change!
De Vikings come and we want dem go home!

Isn’t Fighting Loverly?
Words by Stephen of Durham and Brendan O’Corraide

All I want is a sword to wield,
Coat of mail and a stout round shield.
Someone to face upon the field,
Oh, isn’t fighting loverly?

Nice round mace or a Viking axe,
Balanced nicely for quick attacks.
With weight enough to give hard whacks,
Oh, isn’t fighting loverly?

Swinging combination head-and-leg,
or mollinet,
I would never have to yield,
They’d never get past my shield.

Someone’s head ringing from a blow,
Helm caved in ’cause he blocked too slow,
Ask me to fight and I won’t say no,
Oh, isn’t fighting loverly?

Loverly, loverly, loverly,
Isn’t fighting loverly?

My Favorite Things
(To the tune of “My Favorite Things”)

Heaters and broadswords and target and maces,
Winces of pain on my enemies’ faces.
Ladies whose praises a noble bard sings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Winning in melees, avoiding a fair fight,
Revels that last until it’s morning’s first light.
Cutting down nobles and princes and kings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Watching the foemen as they tumble down,
Fighting for money or winning the crown.
Stripping the fallen of their broken wings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the mail breaks,
When the helm rings,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad…

How I Learned to Fight
(To the tune of DO-RE-Me)

When you know the blow to swing,
You can kill most anything.

Tit, a shot I wish was light,
Neck, a blow I will not take.
Close, a blow that’s almost good,
Head, means you made a mistake.

Low, it means you hit my knee,
Argh, you’re really bugging me,
Groin, you’ve got no chivalry,
And that will bring us back to Tit, Tit, Tit, Tit

Tit, a shot that’s useful in a fight,
Neck, a blow I’m sure’s a fake,
Close a blow that’s almost right,
Head, means you made a mistake.

Low, it means you hit my knee,
Wrist, you fight quite stupidly,
Groin, a bruise you cannot see,
And that brings us back to Tit, Tit, Tit, Tit.

Me Like Battle
Words by Pierce O’Briain and Ailric of Crimson Star
(To the tune of Me Like Hockey)

Me work hard five days a week,
Sit in office half asleep

Waiting for weekend event
Where my quality time is spent

Warriors fight be brave and bold
Must stop when marshal yell hold.

Others they use Florentine
They think that two swords look mean

Chorus
Me like battle
Me like battle!
ME LIKE BATTLE!

If on helm have arrows red
Point tip at you, say, “light you dead”

Archers shoot arrows at me
Well me won’t take what me can’t see

Fun to impress ladies fair
Get to flirt with Water Bearer

When near ladies am big charmer
But no stand downwind when in armor

Chorus

Armor of aluminum siding
Give me excuse for rhino-hiding

Most of heavies not in shape
Hold in beer-gut with duct tape.

Swing and maim ’til battles end,
Me get bored take shot at friend!

Me last one standing in same place
Nuts me dead get arrow in face!

Please Mr. marshal let the fighters fight
Please Mr. marshal let the fighters fight
Please Mr. marshal let the fighters fight
Let them fight. Let them fight!
Let them fight. Let them fight!

Chorus

Me don’t like armor, fight bare-chested,
Back hair tough when flea infested.

Me walk limp cuz me get hurt
Can no more fight so sleep in yurt!

Me fight in crown to become king.
Than me can do anything!

If body not broken and sore,
Back next week for ‘nother war.

Chorus

The Sound of Violence
Words by Rhys ap Baruch and Blaine Sylvan
(To the tune of The Sound of Silence)

Hello broadsword my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because the sounds of battle ringing
In my ears has me singing
Ant he rock that I have instead of a brain
Still remains
I love the sounds of violence

In tournaments I fight alone
I leave my melee gear at home
But when I go down to play at war
I often fight in groups of five or more
When my friend was stabbed by an ninefoot spear in the head
He was dead
Touched by the sounds of violence

A thousand footmen waging war
A hundred archers maybe more
Polemen thrusting from the second row
Shieldmen dying, they’re the first to go
Two-stick fighters can harry the enemies flank
They’ve got rank
And love the sounds of violence

Foolishly I pressed ahead
I’d be a hero or be dead
A belted fighter tried to teach me
With his polearm he might reach me
But my blows like violent hailstones fell
And struck well
Causing the sounds of violence

As the fighters fell and died
Before th’advancing warrior tide
And we shouted out our battle cry
We would conquer or we would die
And the bard’s sing the deeds of the fighters that bravely fall
And they all
Whisper the sounds of violence

The Valkyrie Song
(To the tune of Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries)

We fly through the night skies
Flashing our fat thighs,
Picking up dead guys;
You call this a job?

You take the blond guy,
I’ll take the redhead!
Wait, he’s not dead yet;
Let him go…splat!

Chorus;
Woo-oop! Woo-oop!
Woo-oop! Woo-oop!
Woo-oop! Woo-oop!
Woo-oop! Woo-oop!
Oh-h-h-h-h-h