anglo saxon chronicle, gildas, fall of rome, angles, saxons, romano-britons
Will they discern the lineaments Or the decaying Irminsul Will they find the royal gold Stolen from the battlefield And a robbers lone and mangled skull, Here upon the bloodied Weald, Stripped by every crow and gull. The Bishop's blame pelagians, The King's blame all but they alone To enter Woden's hallowed fold, The Briton chose a new defence A mead hall stench of boiled bone, Mixed with flax and strong incense, To God these fallen will be known. Better to fight than live in fear, To flow with the North Sea tide There will be no return to days of old; A faithless outpost of open dissent, A nation divided by envy and pride; They never knew what Honorius meant Until after the Empire died. A barrow is raised for a Kentish prince Incursions kindle the fires of war Vengeance will be uncontrolled The trading routes will be secured Who knows what hell the Gael saw, Or what agony the Pict endured The West now spurns the Eastern Shore. Mixed blood flowed through these young bones Nobles claim their blood runs true The failings of Rome were manifold Aëtius knew our people well In practice do as the Romans do In battle mirror the legions of hell And honour in death is a King's virtue.
© Severn Dwyer. Six month research project, 2010