Story for the Day: The lads they went a-huntin’

Frewyn, like all the nations of the Two Continents, has its own traditional songs. There are church hymns, hunting songs, reels and jigs, but there are no songs are more sacred to Frewyn than those written by their most famous beloved poet: Tirlough the Brave. Hunter, General, Laird over Westren proper, Tirlough composed lyrics and melodies during the seasonal hunts, to be sung in the evenings round the campfire. Little did he know how famous his poems and tunes would one day be. Some of his works are written in Auld Fremhin and some in Modern Common. Here is one he composed while on a hunt with his brother Tydhgan:

The lads they went a-huntin’ under Suibhne’s loftae grace,

An’ set tae hunt with the gorm, tae bring home a bonnae brace

o’ the finest harts an’ conneighs tha’ the townsfolk ‘ere did spy,

 tae skin, tae gut, tae roast, tae cut, tae feast intae the night.

The lads went huntin’ o’er the hills, troddin’ through the verdent downs,

Their sacks well stocked, their bows o’ noched, they road straight oot o’ town,

they said farewell tae their wee-uns, an’ their bheanrin, an’ the rest,

tae rove the woods with the gorm, tae cross the copse they did love best.

They rode o’er steam, through bracken and brake, and stopped for naught th’while,

An’ only halted when they came upon a den beyond a stile,

“Ho!” says yin, “I thenk Ah found poor Mharac’s den, Ah dae,”

An’ the lads they kicked their horses on, the gorm follaein’ tae.

They rode abreast till they heard the roar of what was lyin’ within,

An’ the horses stopped an’ reared their heads at the sound o’ the terrible din,   

“Ach!” says yin, “sure tha’s the sound of Mharac roarin’  true

An’ Ah wouldnae try tae hunt hem doun nor rile hem, if Ah were ye.”

Well yin o’ ‘em left, an’ yin o’ ‘em stayed, tae hunt the legend’ry beast

And the yin what stayed remained in place till the ancient bear he faced.

The bear he turned round from from his kill, flesh hangin’ from his claws

His teeth were gleaming somethin’ fierce, hart’s blood painti’ on his paws

His eyes were bright with frothin’ rage, his jaws began tae gnash

He took a swipe at the hunter lad, and left in his arm a gash.

The hunter lad he grabbed his arm, he winced an’ writhed about

But o’ the fear went out o’ him an’ his bow he did taek oot

He took an arrow in his hand and noched it for release

When who else but Borras should appear an’ the huntin’ here did cease.

“Mah lad,” said Borras, in his way, “Mharac’s no’ for ye tae prize.

He watches o’er mah  woods in hunts, bringin’ huntsmen tae their demise.

Should ye kill a cub or doe, Mharac’s teeth and claws ye’ll find

Laid at yer neck an’ at yur gut, an’ his sentence woant be kind.

Mharac,” said Borras tae the bear, “nae hunter shall ye eat  

If he keeps tae only kill the hart an’ taek the skin an’ meat.”

The bear he promised tae abide the God Borras’ sacred word

And the hunter maed an equal vow tae mind the oath he heard.

The hunter bowed and the bear he groaned and turned back tae his kill

And Borras brought the hunter back tae his place along the hill.

He waved his mighty hand about, an’ the den he did obscure

An’ said “ye’ll ne’er find it again till yur intent in the hunt is pure.

Yu’ll no’ have Mharac or his cubs, he defends the mountain line.”

An’ Borras returned to Suibhne’s arms, and the hunter went home in kind.

His bheanrin wondered where he’d gone when nae horse nor gorm she found

“an’ where’s mah brace o’ conneighs, lad?” she said, her gaze upon the ground

The hunter took her in his arms an’ told her of his fight

An’ showed her the gash he incurred that day, an’ gave hersel’ a fright.

“Sure, mah lad, poor Mharac would’ve killed ye in a trice.

The wee-uns caught more game then ye, bringin’ home a brace o’ mice.”

The hunter laughed and kissed his bonnae bheanrin well and good

An’ skinned an’ gut and cut the mice, his clan feastin’ as well they could.

And tha’s the storae o’ the lads who went huntin’ in Suibhne’s wood,

Tae ne’er paruse the copse again, ‘less tae forage as they should.

The lads they went a-huntin’ under Suibhne’s loftae grace,

An’ set tae hunt with the gorm, tae bring home a bonnae brace,

o’ the finest harts an’ conneighs tha’ the townsfolk ‘ere did spy,

 tae skin, tae gut, tae roast, tae cut, tae feast intae the night.